11/23/2010

Seattle 148, or And It's Beginning to...



When it snows in Seattle, the collective head comes off and the proverbial (and actual) chickens start running around. Or, rather, people turn into idiots. Real idiots. Idiots who would try to gun it up a hill that's covered in ice with cars close in front of them. Idiots who don't know how to control a skid. Idiots who don't have chains for their tires, don't own snowboots, and seem to think sledding is best done when wildly intoxicated.

The roads are closed. There are no snowplows. There is no salt or sand, or that disgusting organic molasses byproduct that got really popular in Massachusetts one year. In any self-respecting temperate climate, this would be a non-issue. The snow stopped around 2am - it could've been cleared by 5. But it wasn't. Because there are no g-ddamn plows.

I worked a 14 hour emergency shift, because I could walk to work instead of relying on the buses. It took one of my cowokers six hours to make her 20 minute commute. A new client was dropped off at 2am because the highway turned into a parking lot. The school expects at least two, maybe three snowdays from this.

I'm not leaving the house until I have to. I've got my nice cozy fire going, and promises of rice pudding, and I will leave the insanity where it is, thank you.

But I will say this: there is something wonderful about a pink sky over snowy evergreens, and the companionable silence that comes from empty roads.



11/17/2010

Seattle 147, or Ode to Joy

When the rain comes like a cold scolding, I do my best to brighten the kitchen.

(or, as this case may be, an ode to my father)

(can't claim these - they're Joel's. But I know how to make them.)

(Skagit River Ranch bacon is the only kind I've ever had that beat Oscar's.)

(purple cauliflower! who knew?)


(Apple and onion pie, inspired by Laura Ingalls Wilder.)

11/11/2010

Seattle 146, or A Joke to Share

I had a moment somewhat like this, recently.

After months of negotiation with the authorities, a Talmudist from Odessa was finally granted permission to visit Moscow. He boarded the train and found an empty seat. At the next stop, a young man got on and sat next to him.

The scholar looked at the young man and he thought: This fellow doesn’t look like a peasant, so if he is no peasant he probably comes from this district. If he comes from this district, then he must be Jewish because this is, after all, a Jewish district. But on the other hand, since he is a Jew, where could he be going? I’m the only Jew in our district who has permission to travel to Moscow.

Ahh, wait! Just outside Moscow there is a little village called Samvet, and Jews don’t need special permission to go to Samvet. But why would he travel to Samvet? He is surely going to visit one of the Jewish families there.

But how many Jewish families are there in Samvet? Aha, only two – the Bernsteins and the Steinbergs. But since the Bernsteins are a terrible family, so such a nice looking fellow like him, he must be visiting the Steinbergs. But why is he going to the Steinbergs in Samvet? The Steinbergs have only daughters, two of them, so maybe he’s their son-in-law. But if he is, then which daughter did he marry? They say that Sarah Steinberg married a nice lawyer from Budapest, and Esther married a businessman from Zhitomer, so it must be Sarah’s husband. Which means that his name is Alexander Cohen, if I’m not mistaken.

But if he came from Budapest, with all the anti-Semitism they have there, he must have changed his name. What’s the Hungarian equivalent of Cohen? It is Kovacs. But since they allowed him to change his name, he must have special status to change it. What could it be? Must be a doctorate from the University. Nothing less would do.

At this point, therefore, the scholar of Talmud turns to the young man and says, “Excuse me. Do you mind if I open the window, Dr. Kovacs?”

“Not at all,” answered the startled co-passenger, “But how is it that you know my name?”

“Ahhh,” replied the Talmudist, “It was obvious.”

11/07/2010

Seattle 145, or Poem-a-day #309

Raizl, Forhenwald, Bavaria, 1945

The Red Cross worker
says, in halting Polish,
“Don’t you like the soup?
It’s not my mother’s,
but at least the meat is real.”

How can Raizl explain?

Meal after meal,
she sits, clutching her spoon,
eating less than a bite,
naming the pieces of food:
this one is Aleksy,
(he loved potatoes)
this pepper, Elzbieta,
(who we called Erzi,
because she was Hungarian,
and moaned
that our food had no taste)
this piece of meat,
Jaga, gone,
just after the liberation,
as though she knew
her work was done.

“Maybe it’s too hot?”
says the Red Cross woman,
reaching to touch the side
of Raizl’s tin bowl.
When she finds it cold,
she shakes her head.
“Look at yourself!
You need to eat something;
you look like you just
came out of the camps!”

Raizl imagines
pinching a piece of meat
between her thumb and forefinger,
touching it to Aleksy’s lips,
leaving a meatgrease kiss.
They were all so hungry.