In just a few hours it’ll be time for Selichot. Which means a few things.

1. I’ll be up late. The service starts at midnight.

2. It’s almost Rosh Hashanah. Which means it’s almost Yom Kippur. And then Sukkot and its string of holidays. And then Simchat Torah. Yikes.

3. I’ll be hearing / singing some fantastic music.

Let’s chat about #3, shall we? I blogged about some of the music last year. So here’s a bit more, via Yoel Ben-Simhon. He used to be part of my synagogue, and I miss his music a lot.

There are actually several songs in this video, all having to do with forgiveness, which is the basic theme of tonight. Most are sung in the Moroccan style, which you know I adore. (Remember Ruth’s meatball recipe?)

And I must say, the photos are pretty interesting. But my favorite part is hearing the dumbek (the percussion).

Well, here’s hoping that 5771 is a happy, healthy and peaceful year for all.

Happy New Year! / Shana Tovah! / !שנה תובה

]]> http://melinakantor.com/?feed=rss2&p=823 1 http://melinakantor.com/?p=807 http://melinakantor.com/?p=807#comments Mon, 30 Aug 2010 04:46:01 +0000 Melina http://melinakantor.com/?p=807 Part 2

(Click here for Part 1)

Wow. So you came back for even more California photos? I’m honored. Do I need to make you some Peet’s coffee or a frappe to wake you up?

Well, pull up a chair. . .

My mother and I really needed to get away, so we went on a trip to West Marin. More specifically, Inverness, Tomales Bay, Point Reyes Station, Marshall, and Point Reyes National Seashore:

And Wine Country is always a hit. Here’s Petaluma, Sonoma (including the mission) and the surrounding areas:

Berkeley. Where I was born. Sigh. What can I say about Berkeley? Someday I need to go around and take more pictures. (At least I got the view from the Campanile.) But in the meantime:

And last but not least, here some random photos from around the house. Can you tell I had fun in my mother’s kitchen?

Well. At least I get to come back in November for Thanksgiving and my mother’s 60th birthday.

See ya, California! Thanks for being so gorgeous and for keeping me so cool this summer!

Wow. So it’s almost time to go back to NYC. I’m not ready. I’ve been knee deep in writer crazy that’s evolved into writer insanity. Combine that with the “teacher about to begin the school year” crazy and the “It’s going to be 90 degrees and there won’t be any fog and I’m going back to work nerves” and what you get is one super jittery Mel.

And for some reason, I’m feeling more attached to, and more proud of, the Bay Area than I ever have.

Hence, this post.

First up – remember the California Happy Cow post?

Well, behold some Happy Cows, real and otherwise:

I spent quite a bit of time in San Francisco. Check out the fog. Apparently, this has been the coldest Bay Area summer in 40 years.

Fog, sea lions, cable cars, Alcatraz, and a Full House Flashback:

One of my favorite spots on this earth (and Creature would agree with me on this) is Point Isabel, the best dog park in the country. It’s right on the bay. On a clear day, there is an absolutely perfect view of the city. And when you’re done walking the trail, you can relax at the “Sit and Stay Cafe” while your dog has a bath at “Mudpuppy’s Tub and Scrub.” And by the way, the food is totally gourmet. The white hot chocolate is to die for, and the lemonade is organic and served in a sustainable cup made of plant parts. Welcome to CA. . .

One of the best afternoons of this entire summer was spent wandering through Muir Woods. It was warm enough I could walk around in a t-shirt:

Thanks for looking! I’ll be back tomorrow with Part 2.

So here I am, 90 pages away from finishing the last 90 pages of this nasty round of rewrites. And I’m falling asleep.

Remember how I wanted a frappe? Look what I found in my mother’s pantry:

Check this out:

Ah, yes! Bliss!

]]> http://melinakantor.com/?feed=rss2&p=782 1 http://melinakantor.com/?p=756 http://melinakantor.com/?p=756#comments Tue, 24 Aug 2010 00:25:31 +0000 Melina http://melinakantor.com/?p=756 Really. Is that too much to ask?

So let’s be totally honest here. I’ve got issues with jealousy. As if that weren’t bad enough, the people I’m most jealous of are quite often imaginary. Yeah, remember that writer crazy phenomenon of which I spoke about not too long ago?

Well, lucky you, I’m having a writer crazy moment right at this very minute, and I’m bringing you along with me.

Here’s what’s happening.

I’m in the middle of revising a group of scenes that has tortured me for about two years. Simply put, they’re a hot mess. And no, they can’t be cut.

What’s worse is that in the middle of these scenes, my protagonist, Daphna, is learning how to make frappe. And she’s in Crete. This stings extra hard because right now, I’m supposed to be in the village I’m writing about. I was supposed to leave August 11th but I had to cancel my trip.

It’s not just that I’m spoiled and want a vacation. I miss my family and Greece itself so much it physically hurts.

Also, it’s 91 degrees in the Bay Area today. My precious fog has up and ditched me. It’s not too bad in the house, and without humidity, it doesn’t feel as bad as 91 degrees would in NYC. But right now, I want a knight in shining armor, or at the very least The Lucky Mr. Mel, to come running in with a nice, cold glass of frappe so I can sit in the backyard, put my feet up, and read.

Actually, what I really want to experience is this:

So I had to bring my revising to a screeching halt so I could kevtch to all you good people and share this photo, which I took soon after I got off the boat on my last trip to Crete.

OMG. This is where I have to pause and discuss the yogurt. Forget that it’s as thick as soft serve ice-cream. Check out that honey. It’s made by the local bees and smells like lavender and citrus.

But enough that. Back to frappe. I’m a total coffee snob. I grew up two feet from the Gourmet Ghetto and Peet’s Coffee. So you’d think I’d scoff at Nescafe. And you’d be right. With the exception of frappe. And evaporated milk freaks me out a bit, but that’s what’s used in frappe so I deal.

I’d make it myself but it just doesn’t taste the same. But in case you want to give it a try, here you go:

By the way, you know who else loves frappe? Sofie Metropolis. No, she’s not real. And that upsets me a lot because I adore her to pieces and when I read a book in the Sofie series (by Tori Carrington) I have this urge to get on the subway to Astoria and find her.

Well, there you have it. I’m jealous of my protagonist and my BFF isn’t even real. Such is life.

In any case, The Basement Divas are getting pissy. Which means I’d best be getting back to revisions.

Off I go.

Wait. No. I forgot to leave your parting gift.

My characters dance to this. Only, it’s a better version, with words. It’s just that I thought y’all would enjoy the photos. (And while they did use this song in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, it’s not from the movie. It’s a classic.)

And, and, and. . . I discovered Oh. My. Gods. and Goddess Bootcamp by the wonderful Tera Lynn Childs. I haven’t read much YA, but seriously, these books that take place on a magical Greek island totally made my summer.

My recommendation? Make a frappe and get reading!

Now, I’m really going. It seems that Pam‘s revising, so I can’t just sit here and not revise too, right?

*Update: I did it! I made frappe. It wasn’t quite like the authentic Greek frappe, but it was pretty close!

Act 1:

Act II:

Fin.

Actually, Ruth is more than a friend. She’s family. I’ve known her since I was about 3 and a student in her “Tot Shabbat” class at the Jewish Community Center. I still remember making itty-bitty loaves of challah to bring back to my mother.

During my junior year abroad in Jerusalem, Ruth’s family became my family. I travelled south to Beersheba and the surrounding towns a few times to spend time with her wonderfully warm relatives.

What spiced the visits up – literally – is that her family is originally Moroccan. Ten years later I still remember her mother’s fish with garbanzo beans. Wow. Even more incredible was her sister’s seder. Even with the lack of matzoh ball soup (the Sephardim don’t do that), the new melodies and traditions (like passing the seder plate over our heads) made it my favorite seder ever.

Ruth was over a few nights ago, and she brought Moroccan meatballs with her. So of course I had to get the recipe and share it with you. But you’ll have to keep in mind that this is her mother’s recipe – meaning that it’s totally instinctive – so I’ve got no amounts for us to work with here.

Note: I’m posting this in conjunction with a recipe for Israeli couscous.

According to Ruth:

Mix 1 lb of ground beef with with very finely chopped onions and garlic (and maybe a bit of potato).

Add an egg.

Add salt, pepper, cumin, nutmeg and cinnamon.

To see if the seasoning needs adjustment, Ruth, and a bunch of Food Network chefs, recommend cooking one tiny meatball just to taste.

Put the meatballs in a pot. Cover with water and / or broth.

Add tumeric and some olive oil. Boil for a while. And then simmer.

At the end, turn the leftover liquid into sauce by adding peas, mushrooms, carrots, etc.

Hope you’ll try this recipe and pass along any tips you learned along the way! I ended up with way too much liquid. I removed the meatballs and reduced it. But next time, I’ll know.

(Shown here with Israeli couscous, organic tomatoes, squash, and olive bread from the farmer’s market. Mom went this morning and got a ton of loot.)

Enjoy!

P.S. Here’s some good music for you, to set the mood. The last two minutes, when Sarit Hadad breaks out the riq, are the best. Actually, the Egyptian version of this song is one of my ringtones. Anyway, play this whilst cooking and I swear, the flavor will improve!

When you think of couscous, you probably think of the tiny, almost sand like, grains of pasta. That stuff is great, but for some variety, I highly recommend the Israeli kind that’s much thicker and tapioca like. (Note: I usually use the Osem brand, but Trader Joe’s sells a version in a purple box. Sometimes it’s called French or Italian couscous.)

See the difference?

I’m posting this in conjunction with the Moroccan meatball recipe because it’s a match made in culinary heaven, but it’s pretty versatile.

So here’s what you do:

1. Don’t read the directions on the back of the package or box. Read my instructions instead. You’ll thank me later.

2. Please, I beg you, don’t use water. Okay? Thanks, I feel better now.

3. Chop up 1 – 2 onions and 1 – 2 heads of garlic. The more garlic, the better. Plus, it makes it anti-vampire. . .

4. In a large frying pan or wok, sweat the onions and garlic in some olive oil.

5. Add a bag of couscous to the pan (or 2, depending on who’s coming over). Don’t add any liquid yet.

6. Toast the couscous for a few minutes, but don’t let it turn brown.

7. Add A LOT of vegetable or chicken stock. Cover. Bring to a boil.

8. When it’s boiling, take off the lid, stir, add more broth. Keep stirring.

At this point, I like to keep adding broth until I’ve used the whole box. It makes it fluffy and adds flavor. Don’t worry, it’s not too much liquid. It evaporates and gets absorbed. Just keep stirring.

A fun trick that makes it more Middle Eastern is raising the flame at the end and browning the bottom. It’s really good.

Serving Suggestions:

1. Add peas and sauteed mushrooms.

2. Add feta cheese, roasted vegetables, cherry tomatoes, peas, and parboiled carrots. Serve at room temperature. Makes a great side dish!

3. As stated above, serve with Moroccan meatballs.

Have any other suggestions? Share them in the comments!

Enjoy!

People.

We’ve got a problem.

Which is: I went to RWA in Orlando. I came back and got sick. A visitor came for almost a week. I had a whirlwind tour of the San Francisco Bay Area (I’m visiting my mother in CA, remember?). Now, I’m tired.

And, I’m trying to deal with revising a book that must be sent out into query world by the end of August.

Point is, I’m not so capable of being articulate right now.

However, I do have a blog topic. Okay, it’s about commercials, and I hate commercials so much I record everything on my DVR so I can fast forward.

Except for the California Cheese commercials. That’s because of the California Happy Cows.

See, in college I lived across the street from a bunch of Happy Cows, and they used to look at me every time I walked to my car.

We were tight, you know? Plus, by coincidence, they look like Creature. On Sunday I was in Sonoma County (wine country), home of the Happy Cows, so they’ve been on my mind.

Oh, I even snuck a picture of some California Cheese at the Sonoma Cheese Factory:

So, I present to you, the best of the Happy Cows.

1. How can this whole scene fail to improve a dark mood? (Apologies in advance for the ear worm.):

2. The earthquake scenario freaks me out, having been through the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake and all, but it’s still funny:

3. And this one is just fun. A cow with a midwestern accent:

You know what? Some animal right activists claim that these commercials are misleading, because the cows aren’t happy. I really and truly hope that they’re wrong. I know nothing about cows, but to me, those cows I used to drive by and live across the street from seemed to enjoy the big grassy fields and the sunshine. . .  All cows should be so lucky.

Anyway. I hope you’re all having a great week! Thanks for stopping by!

P.S. Yeah, I know. First goats, now cows. Maybe I should be a farmer.

The year was 1983. The destination: a very small, overly picturesque village on Crete’s southern coast. The travelers: me, the 5 year old, and my mother. The reason: My father’s side of the family lives there (and my father flew before we did). And, my father was producing a Joan Baez concert in Heraklion.

That summer was totally fantastic. The trip there? Not so much.

Here. I’ll tell you what happened.

My mother is the best planner I know, and she did everything in her power to prepare me for the trip. I remember sitting on her lap, facing her, while she explained that sometimes airplanes tip ever so slightly when they make turns, but it doesn’t mean there’s a problem. I was worried about my ability to ask my relatives for a drink of water, so we worked on my Greek vocabulary. She’s the best.

Apparently, the trip from San Francisco to Rome was uneventful enough. I pretty much minded my own business and drew a lot of pictures. The TWA (talk about ancient history) flight attendants had glitter on their cheeks, which I loved, and one of them really wanted me to eat at least a few bites of chicken, which I didn’t love.

Then we landed in Rome, where what would have simply been a difficult trip under any circumstances turned into a story that’s still told all these years later.

I don’t know what was happening in Rome in 1983. My mother doesn’t remember anything other than “it was a political situation.” So I don’t know why there were soldiers marching in perfect unison up and down the hallways of the airport.

I also don’t know why I was absolutely convinced they were after my mother. It might have had something to do with the machine guns they had over their shoulders. And those guns, especially to a puny 5 year old, were humungous.

Here’s some kid logic for you: They were going to arrest my mother, even though “I promise, my Mommy didn’t do anything wrong!” and leave me all alone. I was going to wander the airport all by myself for the rest of my life (in this scenario, I wasn’t going to age. I was always going to be 5, kind of like how Big Bird will always be 6).

Here begins the tantrum portion of our story.

Ask my mother why she didn’t take me away from the soldiers, and she’ll tell you the soldiers were everywhere.

Fast forward a few excruciating hours, to the Athens airport. Now, in 1983, pre the fabulous Olympic Games makeover, the Athens Airport was pretty icky (and that’s putting it nicely). To make things even harder, travelers had to take a bus or taxi from the international terminal to the domestic terminal. And we had to get to our flight to Crete.

So, my mother dragged me through the baggage claim, through customs, and outside into the heat. She found a taxi.

However.

I wasn’t a New Yorker then. I didn’t know what a taxi was. My mother hadn’t gone over this with me. All I knew was that Mommy, all of my teachers, the police and even Ronald McDonald said to never, ever get into a stranger’s car. (There were a ton of kidnappings in the Bay Area in the early 80′s, and kids were overly trained to stay safe.)

So why on earth my mother was trying to shove me into a stranger’s car was beyond me, especially since the soldiers in Rome were still after her, even though, and I promise, she didn’t do anything wrong.

Now, you’d think she’d be able to shove me into the taxi, right?

Wrong.

Remember Norma Rae, and that scene where Sally field refuses to get into the police car? (If not, click here and go to the :30 mark.) Yeah. I kind of did something like that.

But really, can you blame me? The driver was this scary Greek guy who was probably smoking and getting annoyed with us.

Yes, we missed our flight to Crete. Luckily, there are a lot of flights to Crete and we probably would’ve missed ours anyway.

I think I’ll keep telling myself that.

The rest of the summer was a great success, by the way. You may have seen some of the photos. I asked for drinks of water beautifully. The Joan Baez concert got rained out and had to be postponed to the following night, which I was kind of bummed about, but check out how I spent that evening instead. Pretty cool, huh?

And yes. I feel really guilty for making that trip so rough. I’ve since apologized to my mother. I’ve also reminded her that it could’ve been worse. A few years later, I was back in the Athens Airport with my step mother and two year old half brother. I puked all over baggage carousel. While it was moving.

Really, you can’t take me anywhere.

Why am I telling you this story? A few reasons.

First of all, I’ve been bitten by the travel bug. I used to travel a lot. I’m totally addicted to the travel channel, am obsessed with Globe Trekker, and the heroine of my third book is the host of a travel show.

Secondly, back in June, Jennifer Weiner had a bad experience on a plane while she was traveling with her two year old. Some bitch in front of her made it even more unpleasant. She put out a call for child related travel horror stories. I was going to send her mine, but with the end of the school year and my mother’s hip surgery there was just no way. But you can read the winning stories here. (You have to scroll down. For some reason, I can’t link to specific posts. Sorry.)

Well, that’s all I’ve got. Wish me luck on my upcoming trip to Orlando for RWA 2010!

Anybody got any travel nightmares to share? That’s what the comments are for!

See ya!

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