Ronald Reagan, W.B. Yeats, John Donne and the Dis-united States of America

Bring Us Together, a sign held up to Ronald Reagan. Did he?  He waged a campaign against "Big Government." As a UNITED STATES,  our government was designed to be "One Nation, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for All. Now it is portrayed as a seeming enemy of the people.  In his poem The Second Coming, Yeats had predicted, ... "mere anarchy is loosed upon the world." When there is no government, we have anarchy.

Some great beast slouches and we who live in a nation that once valued community, caring for one's neighbor, are so fractionalized that we are the antithesis of what John Donne wrote:

No Man Is An Island

No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend's
Or of thine own were:
Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee. 

John Donne

Baking and cooking for fun and necessity

I have always loved cooking and baking. I miss baking challah and mandelbread. I miss making blintzes. I miss my own shortbread pie crust and my hamentaschen. So despite being gluten-free (of necessity, not choice), I still occasionally bake these and suffer the consequence of "cheating". Most I give away. I have already written about this (see What's a Gluten-free Jew to Do?), so I am going to write about how necessity has created a challenge, and therefore fun.

One of the most favorite things I have always done is create meals and menus based in what I have to work with. So my good friend, Kathering Deumling who writes and teaches, Cook With What You Have, and Lynne Rosetta Kasper whose radio show, The Splendid Table affirm my love of this opportunity to look at ingredients and decide how to use them and make the recipes come together in new ways.

When I have left over oatmeal I can just rewarm it, but wouldn't it work well in gluten-free muffins? Hmm, plain 2% yoghurt, eggs, some Bob's Red Mill gf brown rice flour and some Bob's Red Mill Biscuit and Baking mix, a tsp of vanilla, 1/4 cup milk, 1/4 cup canola oil, and 1/4 cup sugar, and top with walnuts.
I baked 1/2 the batter in mini muffin tin so we could have them in a hurry. Yum!!!

Measuring for me is a play it by ear thing, but here is a more exact recipe:

Beat 3 large eggs with 1/4 sugar
Add 1/4 Canola Oil, 1/4 cup milk, 1/2 cup plain 2% yoghurt
Mix in 1 large overripe mashed banana and 1 cup cooked oatmeal (GF)

Mix liquid ingredients into a mix of:

1/2 Cup Bob's Red Mill Biscuit and Baking Mix (GF)
1/2 Cup Bob's Red Mill Brown Rice Flour (GF)
Top with walnut halves, or hazel nuts, or no nuts as you wish.

Bake in mini muffin tin for 20mins at 325 degrees convection, or regular size 25 min. 350 degrees convection.

Lucky to be 70

A couple of weeks ago our grandson Max (almost 14) a singer was in a performance of Simon and Garfunkle with his School of Rock. Some of the young people sang: Old Friends I burst into tears remembering being young and listening to that song. I  pictured  the "round toes, the high shoes of the old friends. How terribly strange to be seventy."

I still dance, laugh, write, play, work for Tikkun Olam, and feel blessed with love.  I watch my husband as a scientist, and a renaissance man of so many talents, including cooking and baking all that he served at my family birthday cocktail party and know that every moment he has been in my life was/is the ultimate in blessings. He had people write something, sing something or create a piece for me. They did! I was honored by poetry, song, stories, humor, flowers, candy, jewelry

 and most of the family I adore.

I am blessed with my sons Eric and Geoff. They are men of family, honor, infinite talents, loving husbands, fathers, and dedicated citizens. My grandchildren all are wonders of goodness, talents, and quite smart. One now going off to university (Jake), two entering high school (Max and Joe) one about to be a Bat Mitzvah and entering 7^th grade (Sophie).

I have my wonderful siblings, Eileen and Shelly along with so many terrific cousins and their kids, all so much an important treasure in my life. And then there are my terrific friends. Lucky me.

70, sounds younger now.  I will accept my age as what it is. A gift of years. Each year has given me more to love about life. As to the sorrow of the people I have lost, I am grateful for the goodness of having had them in my life; so I do "preserve my memories." But they are not "all that's left me."

Remembering Mom, Pearl Lipkin

Mom, I have more sweet memories of being with you than I can ever count or write about. I was in awe when you readied yourself to go out; there you were, standing in front of your dresser, elegant in a red dress, putting on lipstick, then earrings, and lastly the gloves. I wanted be just like you. You always looked put together with matching colors, hats, gloves, purses and the right jewelery for every occasion.

I stood at the sink drying dishes while you told me stories of your childhood, of our heritage, about the Great Depression. You weren’t afraid to share how you had foibles. When you couldn’t get a job, you were told by a government worker where you could get some extra food. You proclaimed:  “I don’t take charity.” Then the man standing behind you tapped on your shoulder and said: “What do you think we all have to do, Lady?” I learned about false pride from that story.

You were active in the P.T.A. and combined your love of singing for a fundraiser. You entertained the PTA one year by doing a faux “strip tease” removing layers of clothing. You never really bared anything. I got teased plenty in school by some boys in my fifth grade class. You embarrassed me then.

You were a quintessential woman of your time. Whatever you read in your magazines about making your husband happy you did. After a day of homemaking on summer evenings, you had us all freshened up and changed for our dinner.

You loved to buy every vegetable, or piece of fruit in the market that was exotic. Back in the Chicago area, avocados were called alligator pears. You brought that home and made a pate with onions and shredded carrots. You got all your “modern” recipes from The Ladies Home Journal, or Women’s Day.  With each menu being based on not mixing milk and meat, our dinners were planned with salad, soup, cooked vegetable, and dessert.

You loved costumes, for Purim and Halloween, or school plays, you made them for us. You and Dad always wore great costumes also. You gave us picnics, trips to every museum, parks, theater, opera, ballet. You choreographed dances I did at our synagogue.

Pearl Lipkin, I love you and miss you and am grateful I was taught by you. 

Boston, Newton, Afghanistan, Iraq, Israel, The World

No Man Is An Island

No man is an island,

Entire of itself.

Each is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thine own

Or of thine friend's were.

Each man's death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee.

John Donne

John Donne's words resound today. It matters who died when the bombs blasted destruction at the Boston marathon. It tears the heart to witness the agony of grief on every family members' face.  These acts of terror signify that we too are vulnerable, we too are a part of the main.

And I long for us to learn that in seeing ourselves as a part of the main, we humans everywhere will set aside the differences that divide us, strive to help each other, and toll bells of freedom and justice.

Reading Names on Yom Ha Shoa at Pioneer Courthouse Square

“What’s in a name?” Shakespeare’s Juliet mused to herself.  I found out while reading them aloud: the Soul.

I stood under a canopy in front of a microphone with a thick packet of pages in my hand consisting of lists of names and ages; these I was to read aloud at the microphone: I began: Nukhim Polyakov, 15, Zinaida Nudel, 14, Golda Miler 13, Khaim Fishman, 6.

I kept reading. Fishman is my last name by marriage. Could this, I asked myself while continuing to read aloud the names and ages at death; could this be someone in my husband’s family?

I continued: Khaia Fishman, age 4, Lifshe Fishman, 6. And I continued with more and more pages, until someone else took the microphone. When I finished reading the pages and pages of names and ages at death, I knew it was not just a list of names; it was their very lives we who were reading made real.

 The day was gorgeous and Pioneer Courthouse Square was warm with sunshine. I had to sit for a while quietly before I could drive or do anything that felt mundane.

I went home and explored family geneaology and Yizkor books. I wanted to see if I had discovered three children, three very little children with our last name, who might be related. But then, they were all our children.

Ó Sherry Fishman 2010

Note: Every year around the country and in other countries Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem, provides the known names of approximately 3 million of the 6 million who died in the Shoa. On Yom Ha Shoa, the Day of Remembrance, these names are read aloud by volunteers in public squares. In this way, people who had no burial or memorial will be memorialized. Yesterday was my first time doing this. I had no idea the profound effect it would have on me. Despite having had many ways of learning about and hearing about the Holocaust, reading the names and saying the ages of these martyrs is a transformative experience.

A Poem for Each Other

Let's write a poem for each other,

We sip our coffee and separately,

Tap on keyboards, sip, tap,

Tap, sip, we read: first me, then he

 Our kindred minds make alive

our love all over again.

And we recreate the passion.

Sherry for Paul©

A Toast to Herman Lipkin

Herman Lipkin (Dec. 2nd, 1918-March 16, 2000). I love you and keep your memory close. It is indeed a blessing that you raised me. I look at stars, and still see and love the astronomy lessons, the physics lessons, the belief that we are a part of a great Universe. I love cities because of you and for us the First City is Chicago. I love architecture and engineering wonders because of you. I love family, laughter, and Jewish living because of you. I love that I danced with you, and watched you and Mama move as if you were the music. I love that my life was full of music, museums, fishing trips and knowledge, because of you. I love that I have still danced with you in my dreams. You never stopped living life with optimism and hope. Your ethics and convictions have guided me.

A Meditation on Memory

“…lost in my memories; they’re all that’s left me.” That phrase from Old Friends by Simon and Garfunkle  came to mind when I visited my mother in the nursing home. She was semi-demented from  her strokes and lived in two worlds, Past and Present. I feared losing her, and now, I sometimes worry I will lose my own capabilities. Sometimes I am frightened that I’ll eventually get lost in memories like Mama did  during her last years.

I joke now about my “senior moments.” I want my memories and need them now. As all the older generation in Paul’s and my lives passed on, they took parts of us with them: Only they knew us when. They took their stories too. I want to preserve them and am grateful that  they cherished the traditions of their heritage.

While I was a young person wanting to belong to the mainstream culture, I pushed away from the embarrassment of being different. But now I want to preserve the precious time of childhood  made so happy for me by my parents and grandparents. I want to hold the precious moments and give them to my sons. I want to savor memories of the places I’ve journeyed, the people I’ve known, the beauty I’ve experienced, the loved ones I miss.

I miss my own youth, my time of meeting Paul, growing in love with him, the wonder of becoming a mother and delighting in the sheer joy of raising Eric and Geoff. By writing the experiences of my ancestors’ lives and my own as stories to keep, I can recapture and share them.

All the stories I tell will be filtered by me via the previously filtered stories, but they will be their own truths.

copyright 2013

What's a Gluten-free Jew to Do?

Sherry Fishman

Copyright 2013

I write this as a person admittedly obsessed with food. I love cooking, baking, eating, and enjoying foods of the world. There is a joke we Jews tell about our holidays: They tried to kill us; we won; let’s eat.

For me, comfort food is based in Ashkenazic Jewish preparations.  But now, every one of the foods so emblematic of the Jewish way of life are now off limits for me.  

Every Friday Bubby took out the flour, made a volcanic pile of it on a large wooden bread board; she delved her fist into the flour to make a well in the center. While she blended the salt and sugar into this pile of ground wheat, the fresh cake of yeast bubbled in luke warm water until it began to spill over the top of the glass. This she poured into the well along with  five eggs; then she added more water and oil, and put her  hands to work blending, mixing and kneading the dough using heel of her hand. As I helped her, she would guide my hands on the dough, folding it over and kneading again until it stretched into the perfect texture for the rise. The yeast scented the room; the braiding and egg wash with a sprinkle of either sesame or poppy seeds sat on top of loaves rising while the oven warmed. The whole house became fragrant. The golden loaves lay cooling until she and Mama lit the candles. I loved Friday nights.

Sometimes Bubby pulled pieces of challah dough off, rolled it into circles, then added chopped onions which became "pletzlach." These were for Saturday morning; they were delicious with cream cheese. This was a Friday ritual, as sacred as all the blessings.

Those times preparing food for the holidays with my mother and grandmother became sacred; baking challah, making chicken soup, along with lighting candles, sweet wine blessings, create, as well as celebrate, the Sabbath. And always they bring my Bubby and my mother alive. For me there is no Shabbat without baking challah; nor is there a high holiday without an extra sweet version of these golden breads.

Rosh HaShana meant watching Bubby stretch strudel dough across her knarled fingers as the dough took on the resemblance of an opaque bridal veil  across the tops of her knucles. I still hear her voice: "Aut azei, meine kindt, aut azei." Like this my child, like this", as she taught me.

She also baked Mandel Bread (almond rusks);  after the first bake, she offered me the soft vanilla and almond laced pieces, warm and luscious. I cannot imagine a holiday without baking these breads and pastries. Bubby is with me; so is my mother, whose kugel, made with rich egg noodles, is still one of the best kugels I have ever tasted.

Chanukah meant fried foods, potato pancakes, fritters, and sometimes in Sephardic friends' homes soufganiyot (doughnuts). 

Passover meant matzoh, instead of bread. Although we didn't bake these at home, even Matzoh is linked to a ritual that made it delicious to me. We weren't allowed to eat a bite of it until the Seder began and we had the first taste of it. I loved it's crackling texture. I loved matzoh brei; I loved the matzoh balls, either fluffy, or dense. I loved the homemade gefulte fish mixed with a binder of matzoh meal to hold the balls together. 

In early Summer/late Spring on Shavuot, during the celebration of receiving the Torah , Mama and Bubby made blintzes filled with creamy cheese, kugels with layers of ricotta and sour cream, because we ate lots of dairy foods on this holiday. Often we had homemade yeasted coffee cakes, rugelach, and mandel bread with coffee. These meals were intrinsic to the rhythm of our lives.

Every Sunday we had Jewish brunches: lox, bagels, bialys, challah French toast. Often Sunday evenings we had Jewish deli; rye breads stuffed with corned beef, kaiser rolls holding homemade hamburgers. 

Purim begins tomorrow. I am craving real Hamentaschen. Both Bubby and Mama baked them and even mailed packages to us kids when we moved away.  It is customary to give these sweets as gifts on Purim. These are a ritual that signifies this holiday to me. 

There are many substitutes, alternative recipes, and efforts to create a semblance of these, but there is no comparison. There are no real challahs, rye breads, or bagels made with alternative flours. One cannot create the same feel, texture, taste, or fragrance.

I know I am fortunate to live in Portland, OR,  where there are so many places that offer many types of gluten-free items.  I know I am able to eat  foods that are delicious. But as a Jew for whom traditional foods actually mean the holiday, I must be honest: I feel bereft.

Emily: A Glint of Light

"Don't tell me the moon is shining,

Show me the glint of light on Broken Glass."

Anton Chekov

Emily you were light and remain a light for  our Jewish and Interfaith Community. You called us each April to read the names of our perished people on Yom HaShoa, the Day of Rembrance. We lost you on the International Day of Rembrance, The Shoa began on Kristallnactht, the Night of Broken Glass.  The shards of memories shine within us,  and their numbers give us more light, like the sparks of Adonai in all of us. Your memory evokes scattered glints throwing the beams of your voice in prayer, your leadership in human rights, your work addressing hunger, your dedication to home, family, community. These beams shine  towards each of us, inspiring us to follow your example: Do the work of Tikkun Olam. You were a blessing in all of our lives, and your memory will remain one.

Is There Separation of Church and State?

On this day honoring Martin Luther King, Jr. and celebrating our President's inauguration, I am still an unashamedly proud citizen of the U.S., although I often disagree with some policies. That's why I am so proud to be a citizen here; it's ok to disagree, it's ok to vote for change, and it's all right to be free to express my views. I also love that we have (or should I say, try to have) separation of church and State. I have nothing against worship, religion, or praying. I do lots of that. I worship as an involved person who is Jewish, and I believe it's ok to worship as one chooses, or to not worship at all. I have friends of all faiths, and love quite a few people who are atheists or agnostics. 

All of this freedom to worship is another reason I love the U.S.A. Now that I have hopefully established that I am a true patriot, I need to express disappointment that our Invocation at the Presidential Inauguration included a reference by Myrlie Evers asking for blessings for our country and it's people by Jesus. I respect that this is how Myrlie prays, but I am not Christian, my friends who are Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims, and Jews are not Christian. Most of us are Americans though. Christian and American are not equivalent. Many Christians are citizens of other countries. But due to some vile attacks from people on the far right,  President Obama has had to prove he is not only born in America, but a Christian. So were the Invocation and Inaugural Luncheon Prayers meant to affirm to the American Public that the majority religion isn't threatened?

How is that what determines being an American? I truly wish all of us were included in a generic faith based prayer. 

At the luncheon comprised of our President, Vice-President, former presidents, First Ladies, and other people in government the Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church invoked the Trinity in asking for blessings. So there were some Jewish goverment officials there. Were they to decide, "Well after all we are Americans; this prayer includes our belief system?" Just pondering: Do we still have separation of Church and State?

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