In Defense of Gefilte Fish

Stop making those retching noises! One of my favorite things about Jewish holidays is the opportunity to indulge in gefilte fish. I realize that I am the only person below the age of 50 who enjoys this delicacy, but that is because my generation generally was forced to eat gefilte fish from a can or jar. That is truly nasty, vile, and disgusting shit, and it has as much to do with gefilte fish as potted meat food product does with steak.

In truth, gefilte fish resembles pate more than an actual fish. It is a ball of ground up whitefish, carp, and/or pike, mixed with salt, pepper, and onions. The recipe deviates a bit depending on which part of Eastern European it is made. Some people add sugar, others add beets, and still others might throw in some ground carrots and parsnip. Whichever derivation is used, the resulting fish ball should be sweet, and not covered in gelatinous goop. (This is exactly where the foul canned or jarred fish goes very, very wrong.)

Back in the olden days, when I was a young girl growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, we spent all the Jewish holidays at my grandparents' apartment. My bubbe cooked for days on end to prepare the feasts. Since I was lucky and only was served homemade gefilte fish, I never understood why people thumbed their noses at the humble dish. Then I got out to New York and was served something from a jar. If someone was unfortunate enough to believe that this was what the dish was supposed to taste like, hatred of gefilte fish made total sense.

At my in-law's Passover dinner on Saturday, they served gefilte fish freshly made at the fish counter of the local grocery store. (At least I think that is where my mother-in-law said it came from; she may have said a Jewish deli.) It was moist, sweet, and free of gelatinous goop. Delicious!

Springtime is For Shearing Sheep and Women

I posted an essay about shaving my legs and arm pits over at BlogHer today. It's one of the best essays I think I've written in a while. (It's weird how the MFA application process sapped my writing inspiration and abilities for a few months.) Synopsis: When I was young and idealistic, I didn't shave my legs or arm pits as a political statement and way to rebel again patriarchal beauty standards. Now that I am old and cynical, I don't shave my legs or arm pits because I am lazy, but this makes me embarrassed in public, so now I am stuck with the razor during the revealing months of spring and summer. Good times.

Whatever Floats Your Boat

"Where you going with that magazine?" I asked Husband as he walked down our small hallway holding a Business Week.

"I'm putting it in the rack in the bathroom," he replied.

"Oh, so that's what you jerk off to in there!" I teased, while nodding in a serious manner. "Makes sense."

Get Your Popemobile Off My Highway!

Important things are occurring tomorrow. Passover begins at sundown, and we'll be heading to Husband's parents' house for what counts as a Seder in our lax Haggadahs: recite the Four Questions, sing Dayanu, then chow down. Mother-in-Law doesn't even bother getting desserts that are kosher for Passover. Wisely, she believes that if you are going to eat dessert, it should taste good.

Prior to my Passover eating fest, I will attend a baby shower in Yonkers. Yonkers is a city just north of the City. It is the 4th largest city in New York State, but since it lives in the shadow of New York City, it gets shit on a lot as a suburb. (Sort of like Newark, but Newark is even more screwed because it is in New Jersey, but that's another story.) Most likely I will eat a lot of yummy foods at the shower.

The problem is that two leaders of institutions of evil will make it difficult to get to the baby shower, and then to Long Island. It seems that the Pope and Dick Cheney will be visiting some seminary that is just off the Cross County Parkway, thus forcing the highway to possibly close. We need this highway to get there. There is one alternative, but no one wants to read my rants about the Cross Bronx Expressway, which was built by Robert Moses and killed communities in the Bronx. (Cheney and the Pope belong on the Cross Bronx, believe me.)

Hopefully, we'll get where we need to go. (By "we," I mean Husband, who is going to drive me to shower and run amok at Costco for about an hour, then pick me up again.) What also concerns me is how low energy Tycho, my 13 lb. rabbit, is today. I think he is depressed that the Pope is in town. He heard a rumor that a distant relative of his, the Easter Bunny (perhaps you heard of him?), was molested by a priest. He's not down with the excuses that the Pope made that these incidents are the fault of a permissive American culture. Can't say I blame him.

My Adoration is Fickle

I still think The Biggest Loser is an entertaining program. It also provides some good advice on healthy eating and exercise. Watching severely obese people take control of their lives and become healthier individuals also continues to be inspiring. However, I am distressed by the amount of weight people lost and how quickly it happened. What's the message?

Dramatic lifestyle changes at the show's ranch aside, I understand that people with significant amounts of weight to lost may find that moderate changes can produce big results quickly. But plateaus definitely hit all of us, and I'm not sure that show portrays that enough. I also think that it underplays how much time contestants spend exercising, which may give viewers false hopes. My suspicion is that most of the audience is like me, and doesn't have four or five hours to spend exercising every day.

Further, in the second to last episode of this season, the contestants already lost enormous amounts of weight. At that point, it is no longer healthy or normal to lose over 6% of one's body weight in a week. That is a lot of fucking weight for people who are in decent shape. (In season 3, which I just saw in re-runs, the final four lost half of that - about 3% - in their final week on the ranch, which seems more reasonable.) And how does muscle get counted? If healthy people replace fat with muscle, they look better, but weigh more. The winner of The Biggest Loser is determined solely by what percent of one's body weight is lost.

I've been stewing over this for a few reasons. First, I would gladly way more if it was due to increased muscle mass. I seem to have lost some of my muscle tone in the last few months, and although my weight is pretty constant, my gut is hanging out way more. Give me a few more pounds if it'll pull me in. (Yes, I know this won't happen unless I start doing stupid crunches again.)

Watching the show also made me realize that from 1997-1999, I lost 25% of my body weight. Since I did it through small adjustments in my life that were pretty sustainable, it took two years. (In fact, a few nights ago, I asked Husband if he could remember how we used to eat before we lost weight, as I cannot remember at all what a typical meal was like. I suspect it involved a lot more dessert, but he could not pinpoint the many changes we made, either.) I think that sounds about right for most people.

I don't begrudge anyone who can lose weight faster, or the show for promoting rapid weight loss. I do hope that people who want to change their lives realize that doing it at home and on their own is likely to take a long time, and that they should not give up. When I first joined a gym 11 years ago, I was sure that it would only last for a little while. Yet here I am today, still going regularly, and maintaining a consistent weight for over 8 years.

That's my 2 cents on this topic.

If the Moon is Made of Green Cheese, Mars is Chocolate, Nougat, and Caramel

The New School logo on the small envelope jumped out at me when I reached into our mail slot to gather today's haul of junk mail.

"Alright, so I'm rejected," I thought to myself as I grabbed it. "At least I can eat the fucking Mars bar already."

I decided to open it in the hallway of the building. This was not such a great idea, as when I read, "I am happy to inform you that you have been wait listed for the concentration in Nonfiction for the Fall 2008 semester," I started jumping up and down. Had someone turned the corner, I might have knocked her over. I skipped through the lobby. At least I didn't squeal until I went into my apartment and shut the door.

Next order of business: attack Mars. Sure, I technically still have no idea if I'll be attending an MFA program in the fall (the wait list is active until June 30), but I wasn't outright rejected. A celebration of caramel, chocolate, and nougat was definitely in order. Especially after I ate a little sandwich bag that I packed with baby carrots, then noticed the insect in it as I was throwing the "empty" baggie away. Healthy is, like, sooooo overrated. And, according to the Mars bar wrapper, Mars bars are, "Suitable for Vegetarians," so everyone except those uptight vegans can indulge. :) Mmmmmm....

Now, back to waiting.

It's a Mystery

Why would a community health organization offer orange juice (but not water) as a refreshment at a course on how diabetics can take better care of themselves?