The Dying Sea

Just a little note about awareness of the state of the Dead Sea. I took this picture a few weeks ago; this sign shows the water level as of 1985--just 18 years ago! But because of all of the diversions of the Jordan River and using the Sea for body products, etc. have drained the already stagnant body lower and lower. Let's do our best to preserve this wonder of the world!

Sephardi Shabbat

A few weekends ago I spent Shabbat with my Sephardi host family and and a blast. Having not been there since the beginning of my trip, it was nice to be invited back for a relaxing Shabbat and I had a blast! I had already experienced some of the differences between Sephardi and Ashkenazi (typically Jews from Central and Northern European) culture from my previous stay but was a bit unprepared for what lay in store.

Shabbat began with a nice trip to the local synagogue and some Kabbalat Shabbat to welcome the Sabbath before sitting down to the evening meal. Having only been at the Cohen's house for Yom Kippur the amount of food was quite shocking--in a good way. We started the meal with prayers and challah accompanied by the customary plethora of Israeli salads and hummus. Next came the spicy fish in red sauce, fried cicken schnitzel, spicy Tunisian beef meatballs, meaty burrito-things, and what seemed like dozens of other dishes. We shared this meal with Tzvia's (the matriarch's) family and I spent a majority of the meal and aftermath trying to comprehend the Hebrew zipping around the table. After the post-meal tea and sunflower seeds I headed to bed, already sedately entering a food coma.

In the morning we headed back to the shul for morning prayer, where I got a healthy dose of Sephardi tunes that made me feel as if I had never attended a service in my life. The influences of their middle-eastern and north African heritage run deep and although the words are the same, the fluctuating tunes escaped my singing abilities. I was surprised to find out that our post-prayer activity would be attending a wedding celebration from the previous week, and guess what that meant? MORE FOOD! David, who was hosting me, told me the intricacies of Sephardi and Ashkenazi wedding traditions, particularly that the previous celebrate the Shabbat following the wedding while the European Jews typically celebrate the preceding Shabbat. I tried to prepare myself for a family gathering that seemed reminiscent of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, especially since the relatives lived kitty corner from my hosts and loosened my belt in preparation.

Once again the food was in large supply, but the dish that caught my eye here was a Moroccan-style cholent (a sort of beans and potato stew). The beef was tender and the beans delicious, but what made this version unique from previous experiences were the hard-boiled egg and mystery dumpling on the plate. With slow-deliberate Hebrew David explained the dumpling to be some mixture of animal fat, oil, and some sort of meal (corn?). Not being a shy eater and certainly not wanting to offend my hosts I dug in--it was edible, but I found it to be the dryness that was off-putting, yet certainly worth a try.

Following the wedding feast I waddled back to my temporary home and settled in for the end of Shabbat. As a parting gift from my hosts I came home with two huge jars of homemade olives, two loafs of challah, bourekas, some of the spicy Tunisian meatballs I love so much, and a bag of the delightfully lemony herb Tzvia grows that makes a divine tea.

As someone who does not keep the Sabbath in the traditional sense I find myself longing for experiences such as these every now and then. I get to experience a different culture first-hand, Hebrew becomes my only form of communication and forces me to practice, and I get a healthy dose o both family life and free food. I feel a closeness with the family that only comes from sharing such experiences, and the open invitation to return for Passover and any other Shabbat is more than enough to fill my heart with warmth--the kind of warmth that flourishes beautifully here in the desert.

The Pho-tastic Voyage

These past few months have really challenged my cooking prowess, especially because our kitchen consists of a double-burner hot plate--and nothing else. This hardware lackage has pushed me to try out some new dishes previously left on the back burner. I have experimented with turnip latkes, nearly perfected sweet potato gnocchi, dabbled in Udon noodles, and most recently delved into the world of soup. One of my longtime goals has been to make soup stock from scratch and the opportunity presented itself quite magically this past weekend.

My friends Stefan and Aaron, whom I met during my week in Tzvat, came to visit Be'er Sheva and see how the non-Tel Aviv crowd of Masa participants live. Aaron happens to be a trained chef who had a hankering to make 2 kilos of beef bolagnaise pasta for our weekly Shabbat-luck (group pot-luck dinners) and the Russian butcher in the shuk bestowed two beef bones upon us as a parting gift--the cooking gods were smiling upon us that day. I got a few pointers from Aaron while acting as his sous chef, but those beef bones in the fridge kept crossing my mind. Even the next morning as we cooked burgers and eggs, which was also phenomenal, all I could think about was making some beef stock for some Pho (Vietnamese noodle soup).

As they departed Aaron gave me some last minute suggestions from the bust station steps, inspiring me to take the plunge into making soup from scratch. Making stock is actually remarkably easy; I filled a pot with the beef bones (marrow exposed for its flavorful goodness), onion, smashed garlic, fresh dill and cilantro, and celery greens for some extra flavor. After bringing the pot to a boil I set it to simmer overnight, in total  about 10 hours. This allowed the natural flavors in the bones to seep into the broth until it reached a nice caramel-brown color and beefy taste. Although it is difficult to get the deep flavors I was seeking without  charring/browning the bones and vegetables in the oven, I was happy with the end result.

I was also happy to share it with another visiting friend. We feasted that night on bowls (okay, they were Tupperware  but I'm a volunteer so deal with it) stocked with rice noodles, fresh and sauteed chilies, broccoli, cabbage, bean sprouts, all with a sprinkling of fresh herbs and chives and swimming in homemade broth. The sriracha and soy sauce added some nice complexity to the flavors as well and helped bring together a delicious meal!

Aaron's Beef Bolagnaise sauce

The Pho Spread I shared with Jacob Raskin

Turnip Latke with Spicy Broccoli and Cabbage 

Jacob & Josh's un-Pho-gettable Feast

Little Victories

After almost four and a half months of living and about 3 months teaching in Israel, each day brings new adventures and delights. I have traveled to Tzvat, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Netanya, and a handful of other cities, floated in the Dead Sea and hiked in the Golan--but the greatest adventure by far is teaching. My school, Hazon Ovadia, is a small religious school in Schunah (neighborhood) Gimmel, which is notoriously one of Be'er Sheva's lowest income areas.

To understand the atmosphere of Hazon Ovadia close your eyes and imagine a fenced off quad with one large building housing most of the classes, another for the office and teachers' lounge, and yet another that serves as both synagogue and auditorium. Now layer onto that shouts of children playing soccer (they call it football) and teachers arguing with each other the way only Israelis can argue; Yitzik the school security guard prowls the blacktop keeping a watchful eye over the questionably safe antics happening in every corner of the yard. This doesn't change much when the bell rings to signal the next class, as most of the kids seem to come and go as they please. And the inside of a Hazon Ovadia classroom is not much different  from the yard. I have seen chairs thrown, teachers kicked, and constant battles between peers. Students flagrantly ignore teachers' pleas for order and too frequently the halls ring with the crying wails from the loser of some pointless fight.

But once you get used to all that insanity, the kids are really no different than American kids. They all want hugs and high-fives; to hear their efforts praised and a smiley face sticker brings a priceless smile to faces of all children alike. After a few months as a member of the faculty I am no longer a distraction when in class, but that doesn't mean much in terms of establishing widespread order. Walking the halls I now know what a rockstar feels like with dozens of fans swarming at any given time; hardly a moment passes without a high-five or answering "what's up?" numerous times. That alone seems to make my job worth it. Knowing that my presence can make these kids, many of whom come from broken families, feel special is an amazing feeling.

These last few weeks, however, I have really been able to see the fruits of my labors. A dyslexic 4th grader I work with has become drastically more confidant in his reading abilities and continues to tear through each new story. This morning I had a run-in with his mother, who confessed that she had seen a visible change and  that he enjoys our sessions together. Although most of the Ethiopian immigrants at HO speak very little Hebrew, I am fortunate enough to work with a few of them during the week. Masrasha, a 5th grader with some of the best English in the school has had a few literal "aha!" moments of realization--the types of moments that make being a teacher worth it. On my way home today he shouted my name as his bus passed by, waving wildly with his head halfway out the window. Needless to say I love my job.

Every time someone asks about my experiences so far I tell them flat out this is the most challenging thing I have ever done in my life. I have never had an "easy" day at school. I have become invested in these kids, and although some days I dread those difficult students, it is just another obstacle to overcome in the process of inspiring them. During the first few weeks of teaching there was serious doubt in my mind it was possible to truly make a difference; most of the kids speak little to no English and there is virtually no desire to learn. But each of these small victories have assured that is just not the case. The days I teach one student a new letter, or another how to pronounce "Wednesday"--these kids make it all worth while.