Oh yeah. And two dead bodies. 

This really wasn’t something I was expecting to tweet on the last day of school (or ever): 

“Having an unfortunate incident wherein I can’t open my front door. Locksmith on the way. Pizza guy for whom I couldn’t open door is pissed.”

Let’s rewind a bit, shall we?

It’s the last day of school. I’m on three hours of sleep, thanks to the eighth grade graduation and a messed up train schedule. I’ve had more work than I can handle. I haven’t been feeling well and have barely eaten in two days. The end of the year is emotional.

Blah, blah, blah.

This usually nice, Jewish girl is such a wreck she’s ready to start calling on Greek Orthodox saints and kissing icons. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just not something that I, being a Nice Jewish Girl and all, personally do. 

(Although my friend Diane says that if I ever want to convert, she’ll provide the kiddie pool for my baptism and make a video of the ceremony. Now that’s a friend.)

Well, I confess that the words “Ag, Panagia Mou” have escaped my lips more than a few times and I am thisclose to crossing myself frantically and perhaps lighting a candle or two. 

Again, not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I digress. Just trying to set the scene. 

So I leave school, all teary and emotional, and get on the Subway. I make a plan. Pizza and a Buffy marathon.

Yes, as we know, Chez Mel is party central. 

Party plans are looking good. Favorite pajama bottoms and Yankees t-shirt? Check. Glasses instead of contacts? Check. Pizza? On its way. I fire up Hulu, and wait.

Pizza Guy finally arrives. 

And that’s when the afore mentioned “unfortunate incident” begins. 

You see, New York apartments, it’s been said, are basically columns of dust held up by 125 years worth of paint. And my apartment, well. . . in spite of the nice neighborhood, leaves a lot to be desired.

My front door won’t open. At all.

Now, I’d like to believe that Pizza Guy wants to be helpful. I really do. Except for his English? Not so hot. . .

He pulls. I pull. He pushes. I push. 

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. 

I even take a screwdriver and take the doorknob off. (And feel quite handy, if you don’t mind me saying so.)

He asks for my keys. I pass them under the door. (Don’t yell at me. I know that’s unsafe, but I know this guy. I order from this place all the time. And let’s face it. It wasn’t like I believed the door was actually going to open.)

I end up paying him under the door, which is actually a lot less illegal than it sounds. He takes the money. Unfortunately, he also takes my pizza. And my change. At least he returns my keys.

I call my landlord. Press “2” for emergency. I get a recording telling me to call the emergency number in the lobby. 

And therein, we find our problem, as the lobby, as you can imagine, is on the other side of my front door. Luckily, the super’s number is in my phone.

Or not.

Somehow, in the whole syncing process that I have yet to understand, my iPhone has deleted a bunch of contacts. 

At this point, I’m thinking of forgoing the Greek Orthodoxy dream and becoming Amish, as they don’t have iPhones. At least as far as I know.

I’m proud to say that I then proceed to do what any mature thirty-one year old would do. I call my mother at work. Do I care that she lives 3,000 miles away? Not so much.

And then I get onto Twitter. Hey, can you blame me for for wanting company? (Hi Tweeps!) I get the sympathy I need. Or rather, people laughing at my plight, which is the next best thing. And hey, I even have the fabulous Tori Carrington, creator of all things Sofie, cheering me on. How cool is that? 

Where was I? Oh, yeah, I’m still locked in. Mom and Tweeps, supportive as they’ve been, have yet to rescue me. So, I turn to Google. I enter “locksmith” and my zip code.

I dial the first number that comes up. Locksmith gets all worked up. “You can’t get out?” he askes. I realize he’s more upset than I am. I also realize he’s Isareli.

He’s just gotten home, but turns out “home” is just a few blocks away from me.

A few minutes later, I hear my name being shouted through my front door. I realize then that some total stranger, presumably with experience in the Isareli army, is picking my lock. I can’t even see him.

But at least I know that if he murders me, my tweets and my in Internet history will lead the cops right to him. 

A few minutes after that, he shouts my name again. “Melissa!” He then says, “This lock is broken.” (I’d let you know how I wanted to reply to that, but I prefer to keep this blog G rated. You never know.)

“I know,” I tell him. 

“I’m going to have to saw it.”

Lovely.

This brings us to my next two tweets:

“Did you know that some dogs don’t care for locksmiths who saw off doorknobs? Just saying…”

“And y’all know how flipping LOUD some dogs are…..”

The sawing is successful, and the door opens. Locksmith barges in and finds me, in my afore mentioned Buffy watching, pizza eating attire, holding a convulsing tricolor cocker spaniel who’s trying, but failing, to show his teeth. He checks out my obnoxious purple fingernails (hey, it was a graduation gift to my 8th graders, long story). 

Poor Locksmith, a sweet guy in his 60’s, is drenched in sweat and manages to look more war torn than I do. There are doorknob guts and tools all over my doormat, 

Pizza Guy chooses this  very moment to come back with the pizza. But not my change.

I feel like I’m staring in a pilot for some cheesy new sitcom. 

Anyway, while Locksmith finishes up whatever it is he has to do, he tells me about how he used to live above my laundromat, before it was a laundromat. 

Then he tells me about the two dead bodies he once found in front of the restaurant on my corner. “The neighborhood is much better now,” he assures me, before explaining how proud he was to be the one who called the police.

He also tells me about the tricolor cocker spaniel he once bought at Macy’s. Somehow, I like this story better, especially since he gives me tips about cleaning the fur on cocker spaniel ears with a mixture of vinegar and water.

Imagine the amusement of Israeli Locksmith when he finds out that my tricolor cocker spaniel’s name is Hamudi (cutie, in Hebrew). He gives Hamudi several commands in Hebrew, which Hamudi follows beautifully, thus giving his mother nachas and many opportunities to kvell.

Locksmith announces that he’s not even going to check my ID because he believes the apartment is mine (as if I’d break into an apartment, put on pajamas, lock myself in – and then order pizza). Eventually, he leaves. “Lehitraot!” I call after him. He compliments my Hebrew pronunciation. 

I’m left with a hole in my front door. But I repair it like the capable, single woman I am. I even think my handiwork is prettier than the original dead as a doornail doorknob. It’s kind of like the way I once fixed a broken USB cable with a hammer and a bunch of girlie stuff. 

I’m happy to report that I now have a shiny, new doorknob. It rocks. Too bad I’m moving in two weeks and won’t be able to enjoy it for years to come. 

How sad is it that more than one person has commented that this is “such a Melissa story?” Do I even want to know what a “Melissa story” is? I think not.

By the way, Locksmith was disgusted at the poor quality of the lock AND how poorly it was installed. Which brings us back to the subject of New York apartments and landlords.

So here’s another story for you. (Thanks Karen, for reminding me about this!)

Let’s talk.

Hello Rain. Hello Monday. Thanks for coming. We simply MUST have a chat.

So. Who’d like to go first? Rain? Okay, have a seat, make yourself comfy. 

~

Water is a good thing. That, I am down with. I grew up watching Sesame Street:

But here’s the thing. A little moderation never hurt anybody. Don’t you ever take a break? Dumb question: Doesn’t the sky ever run out of you? 

I’m way, way past the point of singing cute little nursery rhymes that politely suggest that your relocation might be appreciated. 

Now, it’s personal.

This morning, I woke up to the sound of rain pounding the life out of my air conditioner. The dog sat up, tilted his head, and growled at the window. I don’t blame him.

Poor guy hasn’t had a chance to sniff around the dog run in days. And in my household, when Doggie ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. Got it?

Last week, when I arrived at the broker to sign my lease, I was dripping so much they had to send me to the bathroom with a roll of paper towels. My umbrella, you ask? Useless when tested against your power. Although the guys selling them outside the subway station were making a fortune. Pardon the question, but are you perhaps in cahoots with these people? 

Sometimes, I like you. A lot. Who doesn’t enjoy a rainy day at home, curled up under a blanket. But one can’t stay home all the time. Some of us have to work. Some of us have a commute.

At this point, it’s ark building time.

If my students have even one more day of indoor recess, I’m going to make YOU teach them after lunch. Capice?

I know, I know. There are plenty of places that are desperate for rain. But here’s a thought. Why don’t you pick one of those places and go there? I’ll even hang a map on my wall and throw a dart if that might be of help to you.

Have you been on Twitter of Facebook? Have you not heard the tales of mold and webbed feet? 

BTW, there is still mold growing in the corner of my living room ceiling. That’s what happens when you come inside, uninvited. Even vampires have the decency to wait for an invitation before they come inside. 

Lastly. What’s with the whole teaming up with Monday thing about? What did I ever do to you? 

~

Now Monday. Let’s cut right to the chase. 

Nobody likes you. Everybody hates you. Go eat worms. 

Were you on Twitter and/or Facebook this morning? In case you missed it, here’s a recap: Monday = Day Of Suckitude. 

Okay, it’s not necessarily your fault that you have to follow the weekend. Somebody has to be in that unfortunate position. Problem is, you seem to enjoy it more than necessary.

People despise you so much they’re driven write songs about the pain:

Your general ickyness is so toxic it even seeps into Sunday. And you know how I feel about Sunday.

Was it not bad enough that I was up at 5:30 this morning? I was actually running ahead of schedule and feeling rather pleased with myself. And then the dog puked his guts out all over my living room floor and my MetroCard went AWOL.

Apparently, even that wasn’t enough. You just had to team up with Rain so I’d trip avoiding a puddle and spill coffee all over my shirt. A shirt I just washed. And you know how I feel about laundry.

So I arrived at work wet. And covered in coffee. Then later in the day, I had an unfortunate incident wherein a seventh grader got tomato sauce on my already ruined shirt. 

I truly believe that statistically speaking, these things are less likely to occur on your average Tuesday or Thursday. (No, you most certainly should NOT be proud of that.)

No offense, but would it not behoove you to have some better PR? You’re stuck with the whole first day of the workweek thing, but you could help the situation by, I don’t know, maybe giving everybody a free latte or drink of their choice on their way to work, or sending the UPS guy to people’s door with boxes of wine. Just a thought.

~

Well Rain and Monday. I hope you’ve found this conversation as fruitful as I have. 

I leave you with this parting gift, written just for the two of you, the happy couple:

Well, maybe not so much. . .

It’s come to my attention that there are people in this world who hear about my little life here in Manhattan and actually have a bit of envy.

Well, I am a young(ish) single girl living in the city. I’ll give you that.

Honored though I may be by such cases of envy, it’s time to take a moment to get real.

So I present to you, my lovely readers, a few little gems about my life in Manhattan, so you can decide for yourselves if you still want to pull a Freaky Friday.

Let’s start with the apartment, shall we? It’s itsy-bitsy, teeny-weenie. My bedroom is about two inches bigger than my actual bed. The place has an uneven floor. Dog toys roll from the front door to the window. My bed tilts a bit to the left. There is a spot in the corner of my ceiling that has water damage that keeps coming back. My blow dryer lives next to my desk. Not because I’m messy (which I am) but because there are no outlets in my bathroom.

True story: The other morning, I had an unfortunate situation wherein I was brushing my teeth and an unmentionable bug (I refuse to utter or type the “r” or “m” words within the four walls of my apartment, it gives the vermin ideas) crawled up and out of the sink drain.

Not only do I have to hike up three flights of stairs to get to this fine hovel, but for the pleasure of living here, I pay an amount of rent that would cause your eyes to pop out of your head and your jaw to drop all the way to the floor and shatter.

Moving on to my love life. I always have a date for Saturday night. You’re probably thinking, “Cool! Way to go Mel.” Only the dates are with my dog. And more often than not, they’re for Motzei Shabbos laundry.

See? I meant it when I told you I was neither hip nor up-and-coming.

But back to laundry. Yeah. Why not discuss that too.

When it comes to laundry, I have two options.

Option 1: I haul the laundry down the stairs to the basement. If the one washing machine is free, I have to go all Buffy and kick it until it works (but that’s just between you and me, okay? What my landlord doesn’t know won’t hurt him). Meanwhile, my dog is howling because my basement, as some of you know, is haunted. There be creepy-crawlies down there. Some alive. Some, sadly, not so much alive. And then there are the noises. I do believe that my basement leads to a Hellmouth, just like Sunnydale.

Option 2: Schlep laundry to laundromat. It’s not such a bad laundromat, luckily. Unless it’s crowded. Or the schlep there involves dealing with snow, sleet, or anything else mailmen vow to put up with. And if it’s crowded on a Saturday night, it makes me happy. Why? Because it means I’m not the only loser. Problem is, going there causes me to start singing songs from Dr. Horrible.

Last but not least, let’s discuss the whole transportation situation.

See, I thought the trains and I, after much deliberating, had come to an agreement wherein (can you tell that’s my new favorite word?) I fork over half my salary for a MetroCard and the trains actually, you know, get me from Point A to Point B.

I was mistaken.

Here. Let me give you a for instance:

Last Tuesday, at an ungodly hour that would, in an ideal world, be a time when only infants and maybe the occasional gym fanatic would be awake, I found myself on the subway platform patiently waiting for the B train. It finally came. It chugged along.

“I think you can, I think you can,” I encouraged it.

Well. Turns out that it in fact could not. Or would not. Either way, I was screwed. Not to mention late for work.

At Penn Station, of all places, I had to run, up and down stairs, to the Q. Like it’s cousin, the afore mentioned B, it couldn’t really either. And it was going local.

I’d discuss the whole unfortunate weather situation too, but quite frankly, it’s just makes me too sad. But you can read about it here, in my first ever blog post. (Yes, it’s my blog’s first birthday!)

Now. Do you still wish you were me? Or are you wondering what is wrong with me that I put up with such nonsense?

I admit. The year I had to spend away from New York City was the worst year of my life. The minute I was able to, I was on a plane coming right back here.

Why would I do such a thing? Well, let’s save that for another blog post.

Love ya, mean it!

Mel

P.S. I didn’t get into the whole noise issue. Let’s just say I’m convinced that “Don’t Honk” sign (which, incidentally, is right outside my bedroom window) is only there for comic relief.

P.P.S. To make up for all the kvetching, here’s a little laundry music for you.

This post has been brought to you by the letters B and Q, and by the number 1.

By the wonderful Mike Birbiglia

As you may know, I’ve got a bit of an obsession with the This American Life podcast. Sadly, it’s the only motivation I have to wake up at the crap of dawn on Mondays and spend over an hour on the train.

In other words, I listen to it as soon as it’s up on iTunes.

Months ago, one of the “acts” was done by a comedian telling a story about sleepwalking. I still remember where I was when I heard it. I had just come off the Subway at 81st and Central Park West and was on my way to pick up the dog at the groomer.

Usually, I don’t walk down the street with my earbuds. But in this case, I was too involved to even think about turning off the iPod, or to worry about the fact that I was walking down the street laughing. 

And then Ira Glass announced that they’d borrowed this segment from something called the Moth, and that the comedian was Mike Birbiglia. 

Fast forward a few months to when The Moth is another obsession, to the point that I’m a member and now go to story slams. 

And let’s not forget my Twitter obsession and the fact that I follow all things relating to TAL, The Moth, PRI or Mike Birbiglia.

Which is how I ended up here this afternoon:

So apparently Mike Birbiglia gets an email alert ever time somebody mentions him on a blog, and apparently there have been one or two mean bloggers. Which is a shame. 

Why?

Because Mike Birbiglia is one of the most talented storytellers I have ever heard. His choice of words, his timing, and his expressions are priceless. Even his request that we turn off our cell phones had the audience cracking up. And he’s funny without even trying!

I don’t think that I, or the people next to me, stopped laughing the entire time.  

As a special treat, here’s the TAL/Moth segment I mentioned earlier. Listen to it. I promise, you won’t regret it.

Enjoy!

P.S. Mike, on the off chance you’re reading this, I’m so sorry you had train woes today. Someday, the MTA will realize that people actually do use trains on Sundays. Sigh. . .

Oy. Like a hole in the head I need such a thing. . . 

Seriously, People. Blogging three days in a row? And after the oh-so-icky week I had, I was supposed to be watching all the saved shows on my DVR. Not writing. I’m two weeks behind on Castle. Two weeks! 

Thanks Karen.

So we’re supposed to post our goals. Karen, Jennerosity, Jenifer, Davina, Kerryn and Kim already have. Me, I wasn’t ready. I needed a preamble/chance to whine/chance to procrastinate, which you can have the pleasure of reading here.

Oh wait, pardon me, I forgot. According to Kim, I do not whine. I kvetch. Also according to Kim, we’re having a Wine Awareness Month. I’ll keep you posted on that.

I work best when not focusing on one thing at a time. I need to put my writing into separate pieces of a virtual bento box, with no two sections being the same.

It’s like when I go out for Greek food. I order ten plates of meze and no main course.

Wow Melina, way to ramble.

So fine. You want goals? I’ll give you goals.

Project 1:

Finish entering final edits into my electronic copy of Daphna in the Rough.

Replace the three scenes I deleted from Daphna in the Rough.

Project 2:

Redo my collage and discovery exercises for Polly. I recently took this fabulous course, and I’m loving the whole Photoshop collage thing.

Add 15,000 words to Polly. I feel ready for this now. I wrote the ending during NaNo, but the last act is still missing. I had jury duty last week, which gave me tons of ideas for making sure my villain will continue to be up to no good.

Project 3:

Finish working out the GMC for my Evi book.

How’s that? Are you satisfied? 

Signed,

Mel, who will now proceed to go to Central Park and crawl under a rock.

As if I actually, you know, write stuff.

Hey People!

Remember, way back when, when I actually, you know, wrote stuff?

By “stuff” I mean paragraphs longer than 140 characters, or a comment on somebody’s Facebook status, or your average lesson plan.

Most of you probably can’t even remember back that far, but I assure you that it was a freaking blast. A veritable literary shindig, if you will. I used to feel all writerly in my gorgeous, fashion forward NaNo Wardrobe, and I was actually proud of that clutter next to my computer. I’d sit in my computer chair, with the dog stuffed behind me as lumbar support (that was serendipitous, at first it was just to keep him from barking and/or stealing while I neglected him) crank up the soundtrack for my WIP (work in progress), and, actually, you know, write stuff. 

And then. . .

Well, I don’t know what happened. 

Well, maybe I do. I don’t mean to complain. But:

• I got writer’s block.
• I got rejected.
• I got busy.
• I got distracted.

I know what you’re thinking about those last two. What writer isn’t distracted and busy? But no kidding. Life got extra rough for a while, and I have a commute that knocks the daylights out of me.

And I hate to bring this up again, but there was that whole Mount Manischewitz thing, which was no joke, and I have the photo to prove it. 

But I digress. 

My point is, it’s time to get back on the writing wagon. But with things being the way they are, I decided to take baby steps.

So, last week I:

• Had jury duty (talk about a muse feeder).
• Bought Beyond Heaving Bosoms.
• Made notes in my plotting notebook (and I used pens with glittery ink – not sure what that says about me).

Then today, after a hellish few days at work and several nights of hardly any sleep, I found a note on my Facebook wall from Karen. She wanted to know if I was up for a Wiffer writing challenge. 

Um, well, no. I am not. What I am is exhausted and hyper, and in that state where I’m buzzing around my apartment even though my eyelids are drooping. I may literally hit a wall. 

Yes, Karen. I must commend you on your fabulous timing.

But I’ll do it.

I am, after all, a Wiffer. And I have a huge dent in my credit card thanks to the registration for RWA Nationals. 

And, well, to be honest, I’d like to think that I just may, in spite of everything, still be a writer.

I’ll post my May Writing Goals shortly. But for now, I’m taking a pledge to actually, you know, write stuff.

How’s that?

P.S. Anybody have a name for my Wiffer Bear? I have a feeling I’m going to need him this month.

Go Wiffers!

What? You want I should know from such things?

Okay guys. So I know I promised a lesson called, “When Harry Met Mary,” but my friend Pam left me a comment on Facebook that gave me an idea. 

So for Lesson 3, I am going to talk about a few words we all know but can be used differently by some (mostly Jewish or Italian) New Yorkers.

Those words are: from, should, what, and where

I’m going to give you your challenge right up front. At the end of this lesson, you will be asked to translate the following passage. (It’s very Wiffer related. If you’re not a Wiffer, what’s stopping you? Become one now!) You may need to refer back to Lesson 1 and Lesson 2 to figure out sentence structure.

Wiffers are awesome. They know all about wine and writing. Lani wants people to drink every time she says “awesome.” Sam says that if you need a drink, go to Romeo’s Liquor. 

Part 1: From

Roughly translated, “from” is the equivalent of “about.”

Here. I’ll give you a “for instance.”

They know from romance novels, The Smart Bitches. They also know from heaving bosoms. 

Part 2: Should

Roughly translated, “should” is the equivalent of “wanting somebody to do something.” 

Another “for instance.”

When my uncle told me he was upset that I was making chicken for both of our seders, I said to him, “What? You want [that] I should knock myself out in the kitchen?” He replied that he wanted [that] I should make a brisket. 

My principal was overwhelmed and upset yesterday. She asked me where the gun was because she wanted [that] I should shoot her.

The Wiffers (especially Pam) want [that] Sam should watch Buffy.

Part 3: What and Where

Roughly translated, “what” is the equivalent of “something” or “anything” and “where” is the equivalent of “somewhere” or “a place to.”

The last “for instance.”

My friend moved. She told me her living room had a door so it could turn into a guest room. “When you visit,” she said, “you’ll have where to stay.”

My friend Kim was stuck with a bottle of wine that was so bad she had to pour it out. That night, the poor dear didn’t have what to drink. 

Okay, ready? Here’s your special passage to translate.

Wiffers are awesome. They know all about wine and writing. Lani wants people to drink every time she says “awesome.” Sam says that if you need a drink, go to Romeo’s Liquor. 

Leave your answers in the comments. If you want to peek at my answer, select the white space below. Good luck! And remember, there is no one right way to translate.

They’re awesome, the Wiffers! Why? They know from wine and writing. Lani wants [that] everybody should drink every time she says “awesome.” Sam says that if you need what to drink, go to Romeo’s Liquor. 

Homework: Watch this video and discuss the New York speech patters amongst yourself.

Dogs and Dumbeks. . . And a book giveaway! 

Well, here I am in California. Less than a week before I fly back to NYC. But I’m glad I have a little time left here, because I need to recover from a bunch of stuff. Mainly, Passover. I am proud to announce that I survived both seders, which included the leading of 10 + guests through all the proceedings. And that was after I knocked myself out cooking.

We finally finished cleaning the kitchen this morning. My mom was joyous when she finally found the kitchen counter under all the seder/Shabbat remnants. 

Only a few more days of the holiday left to go. I’m already planning my pizza dinner for Thursday night. But I’m actually doing okay without flour, legumes, and other non Pesach stuff (aka chametz and kitniyot).

Other than that, it’s been fun. Last Sunday, Mom and I went to Beach Blanket Babylon. I haven’t been since I was in Kindergarten. Who knew it was so much fun? And the actors – such talent and fabulous voices!

Check it out:

Hamudi survived the trip and behaved! I was astounded and confused. Then he was a naughty, naughty bad boy the next day, so I felt better. He’s having fun with my mother’s new couch, and hanging at Point Isabel.

And I’m having fun playing my dumbek sans apartment neighbors.

Oh, and get this! The Super Shuttle driver in NYC dropped my dumbek. It survived, thank goodness. Turns out he also plays dumbek (he’s Israeli with a Moroccan father). He made a point of telling me that he’s “really good.” 

In other news, I spent a few days paying no attention to my RSS feeds. And then I discovered that the fabulous, lovely, Marilyn Brant has the most gorgeous book cover ever! So sorry that I was so late to the party, but I’m celebrating now! Yay Marilyn!!!!!!!!

Speaking of books, I have three of them to give away!

1. Bikini Season, by Sheila Roberts
2. Skinny Dipping, by Connie Brockway 
3. Night Keepers, by Jessica Anderson

Here’s the deal. If you’re interested in one of these books, just say so in the comments. In honor of my S.F. trip, I’m even going to throw in some Ghiradelli Chocolate squares! 

That’s all for now!

Directly from Mom’s files!

Hey Everybody!

As promised, here are my Passover recipes. Well, they are mine, because I’m going to be the one cooking. But I did steal them from a file on my mom’s desktop. And we all know that my mom is quite the cook, don’t we? 

So. Keep in mind that there are special dietary laws to be followed and traditions to be kept (how else do you explain gefilte fish?). These are not my usual spicy, garlicy, natural Mediterranean recipes.

You should also know that I cut and pasted directly from my mom’s file with all her little notes, etc. Fun, eh? (Anything in italics is from me. You know me. Like I’d resist any opportunity to chime in.)

Here we go:

Melina’s Charoset

Okay, okay, so I lied. This one recipe is mine, not my mom’s. But the rest are hers, pinky swear.

Click here if you don’t know what charoset is.

I am extremely picky, and am not a fan of walnuts, so I use pistachio nuts. As is typical for my recipes, I don’t know amounts or anything like that. 

Use a food processor to chop the pistachios. Take a bunch of different kinds of apples (I kind of, sort of peel them) and chop those up too. Add some cinnamon. Add some wine and/or grape juice. 

Taste it. If you like it, you’re done. Go put your feet up for a few minutes. If you don’t, no biggie. Just adjust it until you do.

There. That’s it.

P.S. You can add honey if you’d like. 

P.P.S. Just tasted my charoset. It needs wine, just like the person who made it.

P.P.P.S. And here’s a way cool recipe for Persian charoset.

Frances Plansky’s Matzoh Balls

These are fluffy “floaters.” I prefer “sinkers,” but what can you do? This is tradition. 

•  4 eggs                                                     
• 1/2 c water                                                              
• 1 c matzoh meal                                                     
• 1/3 c oil                                                              
• 1 tsp salt                          
• dash pepper                                                              

(for 8-10 balls)

Beat eggs till light.

Add water, oil, salt and pepper.  Mix.

Add matzoh meal, stir.

Put in fridge at least 20 min.

Boil water w/1 tbsp salt.

Shape into balls.

Drop into boiling water.

Boil 20 min w/TIGHT cover. DON’T LIFT LID!!!

Then, turn off heat and let sit with tight cover for one hour.

(For the chicken broth, my mother uses Molly Katzen’s vegetarian chicken soup recipe but sticks a whole chicken in the pot. Sorry Molly.)

Aunt Julie’s Chicken Paprikash

Aunt Julie was my grandfather’s sister. That branch of the family is Hungarian, hence the paprika. The chicken falls off the bones. Please people, let’s not choke. Okay? Thanks.

Put 2 chickens cut in 8ths into salt water.

In deep pot, sauté 2 big onions in a little oil.

Add chicken pieces (not liver).

Cover, simmer on medium heat w/ tight cover for 3/4 hour.

Pour in 1/2 packet Hungarian paprika. Taste for flavor. 

Add 1 small can Manischewitz chicken soup (maybe less than one can–before the chicken is completely covered). 

Add mushrooms toward end.

Cook another 1-1 1/4 hours.

This goes very nicely with the “Matzo Stuffing” recipe on the container of Manischewitz farfel.

Passover Sponge Cake

This is one of the reasons I had to store five dozen eggs in my uncle’s refrigerator. Yikes.

• 9 egg yolks (Not kidding.)
• 2 c. sugar
• 6 T. water
• 1/4 c. fresh lemon juice
• 3/4 c. unsifted matza cake meal
• 3/4 c. unsifted potato starch
• 2 1/2 t.  grated lemon rind
• 1/2 t. grated orange rind
• 9 egg whites (Again, so not kidding. How else is the cake going to rise?)
• 1/2 t. salt

Mix together the egg yolks, sugar, water, and lemon juice. Beat together at medium speed until light and fluffy.

Add the matza cake meal, potato starch, lemon rind and orange rind very gradually to the egg yolk mixture. Make the addition as if you are shaking powder (this is the key to it not falling). It should take 5 minutes or more to add the dry ingredients to the egg mixture.

Beat the egg whites and salt separately until the egg whites are just a little beyond the soft peak stage.

Fold the egg white mixture gently but thoroughly into the cake batter. Pour into an ungreased 10″ tube pan. Bake on the middle rack at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 1 hour and 10 minutes or until the cake springs back when touched lightly.

Cool completely inverted. Remove from pan when cool. Serve with big red strawberries.

Traditionally, powdered sugar isn’t used during Passover because it has cornstarch, and corn is a Passover no no. My solution is to mix granulated sugar with potato starch. It’s just like powdered sugar, and is nice on the berries.

Enjoy!

Hey! Anybody Want Some Chicken?

If you answered yes to that question, come to one of our seders. Everybody else is, so what’s one or two more, right? Just take a peek inside my mother’s overflowing refrigerator and you’ll see what I mean. 

Seriously though. Hello from the San Francisco East Bay, where Hamudi and I are again visiting my mother.

We’ve got chicken for 25 people (divided over two nights), plus four whole chickens that will, if all goes according to plan, magically turn into soup tomorrow morning.

I got here and found Mount Manischewitz:

Yes. All of this has to be turned into a meal, or two, or twenty. And did you notice the freakishly ginormous Box o’ Matzoh?

Anyway, this is where you come in. I’m home alone cooking, cleaning and trying to keep the dog quiet. I’m bored, so I thought you might want to keep me company and help me procrastinate. 

So, over the next twenty-four hours, while I continue the endless Passover preparations, I’ll be adding a Kosher For Passover section to my recipes page. I don’t expect that you’ll be rushing to try any of the recipes, but I’ll post them anyway.

Why not, right?

See you all soon! To those of you celebrating, have a zissen Pesach!

Update: Recipes have been posted. Oh, and the cooking didn’t cause me to keel over. And that’s a plus, right?