Guest Post from England: Adventures with Blueberries

 

Dawn and I met when she spent a year at my workplace, the Kaiser Permanente Institute for Health Policy in Oakland. She was a health care policy fellow participating in the Commonwealth Fund’s prestigious Harkness Fellowship Program. We quickly bonded over food, parenting, and 80’s music, and we continue to stay in touch after her return to England to work as a professor at the University of Leeds. I love that she reads our blog from across the pond, and that she sent this post about baking with her son, Iddy. Enjoy!

One of the things I miss most from our year in Berkeley is our Saturday mornings having brunch at Cafe M on Fourth Street. Iddy and I would order a full stack of blueberry pancakes to share. There was nothing better than sitting in the sunshine enjoying the delights of pancakes and Berkeley life.

On Friday I was in our local store (in York, England) buying some food for the weekend – blueberries were on a special deal and the thought of pancakes for breakfast (and maybe some muffins inspired by Anya’s blog the weekend before), I bought the ingredients we needed.

The next morning Iddy and I made pancakes, using the recipe from my Bubby’s brunch book (a treasured memento of my time in California along with my measuring cups). We carefully measured out the dry ingredients into a bowl, then Iddy whisked the eggs, buttermilk and melted butter for me in the mixer. We carefully mixed in the dry ingredients and the begun to cook our pancakes. Having made a stack, we smothered them with syrup, and for a moment I was transported back to Berkeley, eating pancakes with my family.

After a day spent cycling we returned home and I felt it was time to try out Anya’s recipe for blueberry muffins. Iddy by now was tired after his bike ride, and I appreciated the time in the kitchen listening to KFOG (the wonders of the Internet), following the recipe carefully. I had some buttermilk left over from the morning’s pancakes which I mixed with natural yogurt, as a slight amendment to the original recipe. They went into the oven and as the delicious smell started to permeate the house, both John (my husband) and Iddy began to hang around the kitchen.

They were delicious and a great ending to a day of blueberries!

Our Family Seder

This is a guest post written by my big sister, Niki. Not just a sister, but a second mother, a best friend, counselor, and confidante. Every year, we celebrate Passover at her home, which is always filled with good smells, warmth, laughter, family love, and the best matzoh ball soup I’ve ever tasted! I hope you enjoy her thoughtful and personal take on this family tradition.

Why is This Night Different from All Other Nights?

Is the question asked by the youngest child at the Passover Seder. Seder in Hebrew means “order” – it refers to the specific order of retelling the story of the Israelites’ liberation from slavery in ancient Egypt. Retold by Jews all over the world, we are required to remember our religious, cultural, and ethnic history and to experience the story as though reliving it every year.

Passover lasts seven days and the Seder is held on the first night. Outside of Israel, some Jews also hold a Seder on the second night. A tradition of long ago, fires were lit on mountain tops to signal the start of the holiday. It took time to be sighted by the closest community and light their fire for the next community so some of us celebrate the first and second night to make sure we don’t miss the actual Holiday. In our family there are many of us and it takes months of planning to find a date that works for all of us: our clan is happy if our celebration falls somewhere during the week of Passover. We gathered this past Saturday starting a “little” later than called for (some call this Jewish Standard Time – if you want everyone to arrive at 5:00 pm, it is imperative to set 4:00 pm as dinner time).

Passover is one of the Jewish Holidays that I look forward to every year. Usually I host our family Seder at our family home, and this year for the second time, in our new home in Sonoma. Because we were all raised to contribute, everyone in the family shares responsibility for our festive meal. I make the entrée, the matzoh ball soup, the charoset, and provide the matzoh. Various family members volunteer to fill out the rest of our dinner. I also prepare the Seder Plate. The Seder Plate contains the symbolic foods eaten at our Seder:

  • Bitter herbs (horseradish) – symbolizing the bitterness and harshness of slavery, which we endured in Egypt.
  • Charoset – a mixture traditionally made from apples, chopped nuts, cinnamon and sweet wine representing the mortar used by Jewish slaves to build the storehouses of Egypt.
  • Parsley – dipped into salt water representing the tears we shed as slaves.
  • Shankbone (chicken wing, or beet) – representing the Paschal lamb and the sacrifices we have made to survive.*2 Before the tenth plague, our people slaughtered lambs and marked our doors with blood: because of this marking, the Angel of Death passed over our homes and our first-born were spared – not so for the Egyptian first-born. This was the last of the plagues sent to convince the Pharaoh to allow the Jews to leave Egypt.
  • Hard-boiled egg – representing the offering brought to the Temple. In more recent years has come to signify spring, and our rebirth or renewal.
  • Matzoh– the unleavened bread that we had to make in a hurry to sustain us on our journey through the desert.
  • Orange – a modern addition to the Seder Plate. Jewish feminists introduced the custom of adding an orange to the Seder plate. It is said to be a symbol of the fruitfulness of all Jews, including women and members of the gay community.

The table is set, and a cup for the Prophet Elijah is filled. We open the door to invite him into join our Seder. Elijah has been the Jewish savior and redeemer throughout time.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Our family Haggadah (from the Hebrew Lehagid – to tell) has undergone changes throughout the years. Originally compiled from a variety of texts, we have added poetry and songs, and our own traditions to reading the story of our Exodus from Egypt. We have been celebrating Passover now for many decades. It has been so moving to observe my children, my siblings’ children, and now Anya’s children taking turns reading from the Haggadah. Many years passed since their first attempts at reading, my sons are now leading the Seder. Caleb, now one of the youngest at the table, read the Four Questions. We all clapped – as we did for the children before him – as he is our new beginning reader. We swell with pride at the milestones our children have accomplished.

At our Seder table chaos reigns. Attention wanders, children get up and return, side conversations abound, we are starving and it takes too long to read the entire Haggadah (which is already shortened). It is time to finally eat!  Delicious. We give thanks for coming together year after year:  for retelling the story of our ancestors; for our bounty in eating plenty when others have little; for the love we share with each other. As my great Grandfather used to say:  I am a lucky Jew!

Next Year in Jerusalem!

Caleb Reading the Haggadah for the First Time

World Enough and Time

My dad wrote the following piece at the end of a lovely day spent together. I had asked him to put his take on our day in writing; a day of hand-holding, good conversation, and pork rib donations to the table next to us (my dad – a most generous soul and more of a Jewish mother than most I know – has to feed others and share a good thing). I am most impressed with his ability to read me so well. I love my Pa immensely and truth to tell, since my mom’s death four years ago, I have been clinging a little more consciously to our precious time together.

By Manny Blackman

These days, Anya mostly calls me ‘Pa’. In her teens (shudder), I was mostly Dad as in “Dad, you are so embarrassing!” Well, the other day she called me with a brilliant idea! How about if she takes a day off her work and we spend some one-on-one time together? I knew her work and family responsibilities were taxing and how rare the opportunities were for a breakout day such as this. We agreed to go for it.

After some sweet time at The Cheese Board Collective in Berkeley sampling exotic cheese, fruit pastry, and a little coffee, we came to decision time – where to next? The choices were North Beach, Chinatown, or whatever. We decided on whatever…the Brown Sugar Kitchen.

Located in Oakland’s industrial suburb, this Louisiana eatery is very special in all of its aspects. It is well worth the short wait for seating amidst the genial and appreciative customers. I am no stranger to this wonderful restaurant; however, it was a first for my foodie daughter. Brown Sugar Kitchen features mostly Louisiana area delights. These include, but are not limited to fried chicken and waffles, spicy gumbo with smoked chicken and shrimp over basmati rice (the clear winner for Anya).

Our fast-moving and cheerful waitress had no difficulty in fathoming our father/daughter connection. Truth is, we rather do look alike thanks to a direct genetic gift from Moses hisself! The joint is packed as we await the arrival of her gumbo, an oyster po’ boy sandwich, and my Jim Dandy to the rescue ribs!  My people-watching sweep of this non-kosher paradise brought my gaze back to my Anya. She had been locked onto my face for a goodly bit of time. I asked if there was anything wrong. “No Pa”, she said, but I know her too well to believe that.

I know that her mother’s death had hit her very hard. It had hit all my children hard, but for Anya and my son Kevin, perhaps the heaviest. All of us had, and still do have a personal sense of what might have been “had we but world enough and time”…

I am fast approaching my 82nd birthday. As it draws near, I have no sense of trepidation or dread. Truth is, I am a very lucky Jew. This whole lifetime has been like going to my personal movie without my being in charge. Certain scenes would certainly have been cut and left on the floor. I have read that Gary Cooper, a star of western movies had an only daughter who, upon his passing was “inconsolable”.  My hope is that my children are more than consolable.

My hope is that they will understand that the focus of those who came before was on life and light and hope and kindness…..and love.

Me 'Pa'

Next up…living in a world without my mom in it (if you’ll indulge me).