The Verbal Contortionist

SNIP

2006-11-17T14:42:00.000-08:00

Local wildebeest revealed to be three-year-old Hasidic boy after ritual haircut, police said

Many of you are familiar with the relative diversity of my familial unit. Encouraged, as we were, to freely embrace our respective pathways (so long as they didn’t involve "THE GAYS") my brothers and I have each pursued unique and wildly divergent lives. On one end of the spectrum, there’s Joshua—strapping, handsome and as lean and muscular as any steed. He’s a fourth degree black belt, a graduate of a fine northeastern university, he has a steady (if vexing) job and a modestly appointed bachelor pad in the ‘boken of the north, White Plains. Kevin (or Hayyim as he is more frequently known) shirked the eyeliner, dissonant guitar riffs and copious acid tabs of his youth to embrace Lubavitch Judaism with my equally spiritual and emotionally stalwart sister-in-law, Esther. He’s a teacher, a scholar in the most classic sense, a father of one (very, VERY soon to be two) and has spent the last three years of his life lining up his mystical ducks such that he can excel in that taxing role…still doesn’t wear deodorant though. And me? Well, suffice to say that when not torturing small animals, committing arson and collecting strands of my neighbor’s hair (it’s just so golden…) I’m a relatively balanced amalgam of the two.

This past weekend marked a milestone in the life of Hayyim’s son, my nephew Kaddish. Related to the Talmudic decree that fruit trees must not be harvested until their third year, young religious boys are required to grow their hair until the age of three. The Upshern—a ceremony that marks the birthday with a symbolic snipping and shearing of the lad—is the first of many tenets that Kaddish will grow to fulfill. After his Upshern, Kaddish will formally begin his introduction to a Jewish life, wearing tzit tzit, a yarmulke and reciting mincha, maariv and shachrit alongside his father. It’s a big deal, I learned.

So I left my New York life behind this weekend and headed to North Miami Beach, Hayyim and Esther’s home base and, ironically, the site of a bustling pocket of Lubavitchers. Swollen with the burden of their second child (I’m betting on a girl), Esther skillfully micromanaged the preparations, sending each of us buzzing about the sweltering hive. I was on artful food arrangement duty, a task I completed with incomparable élan (I have a way with plastic cutlery). At noon, the guests began to leak through the front door—clutching their Judith Liebers and fluffing their respective bouffants (we were a long way from Boca). The Upshern was limited to family which for most would make for a modest affair, but given the prolificacy of my ancestor’s wombs, the house soon throbbed with activity.

After bagels, caffeine-free diet coke and innumerable photographs (each of which rendered me horribly distorted), the headlining act commenced. Hayyim patiently explained the meaning of the Upshern to the bewildered crowd (ed. I later learned that a well-placed trough filled to the hilt with Balvenie Scotch might have eased the proceedings for a number of guests), sectioned of his pais and took the first snip. Esther followed, then my grandfather (a Levite—not a Kohain in the bunch). We lined up, each handing Kaddish a dollar for tzedakah (charity) and a piece of candy to keep him smiling, before loosing a foot-long tassle of his beautiful locks. And yes, the hair went to Locks for Love.

The next day was Kaddish’s Arienfirenish, a follow-up to the Upshern which involves his official introduction to Hebrew and scripture. We brought him to room 304 of the Lubavitch Educational Center in Miami where a gaggle of neatly dressed Yeshiva buchers welcomed him with the kind of deafening energy reserved for boys of their particular constitution. Esther squeezed honey onto each of the letters on a laminated Hebrew alphabet and Kaddish, reciting them in the company of a warm, septuagenarian rabbi licked it off, teaching him that Torah and indeed the study there-of is a sweet pursuit. We showered him in honey cake and taffy, took more pictures, gracefully concealed tears of joy and called it a day.

Not much more to report on my weekend visit to the worst state in the union (sorry Kev/Est). I excavated my late grandmother’s belongings as I am wont to do (found her travel diary from the 60s), ate dinner before 6 pm nightly, endured the exquisite pain of my father’s searing invectives and didn’t, even in passing, see a single grain of sand (in fact, I’m not entirely convinced that beaches actually exist in Florida. I’ve never seen one.)

And in the meantime, Daniel was photographing the Kennedys? How did I miss this?

The Great Pastrami Heist of 2006

2006-11-06T15:22:00.000-08:00

Daniel, often refers to me as the "Bonnie" to his "Clyde"–a rather inaccurate comparison given my tendency to stray from the more damning of biblical transgressions. He'll often return from the market with the quart of milk and the cluster of bananas I requested along with a delicately sculpted boule of cheese which, triumphantly he believes,he's managed to conceal in any number of fearsome regions. It's a habit I look upon with a sort of quiet disdain.

But I love pastrami.

A few words on Katz's Delicatessan. Established in 1888 by a family of Russian immigrants, Katz's built it's reputation on providing faithful recreations of old world standards for a concentrated Eastern European community. It's one of few bastions of the old Lower East Side still visible and today, occupies an inconceivable stretch of real estate on the corner of Houston and Ludlow. It's served as the backdrop for countless New York films and is one of the only restaurants in the city that attracts both tourists and locals in equal measure. The dated ticket system—essentially a paper receipt that allows the deli to account for orders placed both at the table and at the counter—has been the downfall of many a pastrami enthusiast. The loss of a ticket means a $50 fine, a harsh penalty and one we know all too well. We resent Katz's for harshing our nosh vibe with such archaic fear tactics, and perhaps more so, because despite outrageous prices and an annoyingly outdated collection of celebrity photos, we simply can't find a better cut anywhere on the planet (though surprisingly, Lenny's does a decent thin sliced version).

So when our waiter (clearly a new hire) neglected to mark either of our tickets, Daniel saw an opportunity to even the score with the deli meat behemoth. We couldn't leave with two unmarked tickets, it was simply too obvious. So we concocted a plan that involved the ordering
of a second sandwich, this time at the counter, which would be indicated on Daniel's ticket. We would pay for that sandwich while letting our table order slip through the cracks, making off with a hefty take-home meal like the cured meat bandits that we are. I took my naked ticket to the cashier, leaned suggestively over the counter and waved dismissively in Daniel's direction. "My fella's taking care of this one," I winked.

I slinked out the door and positioned myself such that I could peer inconspicuously through a row of hanging salamis and watch him in action. A compulsive lip biter, I feared Daniel's tell would be obvious to the cutters and the savvy rent-a-cop who stood watch near the door. But my darling, moral fibers creakingly taut, ordered our sandwich with stunning finesse, marched it proudly and discretely to the check out and metered his steps towards me like any other nebbishy Brooklyn boy bringing home the pastrami for a late Shabbos meal. Pilfered meat in tow, we gleefully skipped towards Second Avenue, stopping only to argue about who should rightfully inherit the bulk of the sandwich.

Did we need another pound of pastrami? Certainly not—after all I can’t in good conscious deny that Katz’s is one of the central vices that have impressively bloated my mid-section. But it's nice to know that once in a while, a pair of nogoodniks can still beat the system.

Next stop, Carnegie Deli. I hear they have a heckuva matzoh ball…

Lordy it’s been awhile!

2006-10-05T08:37:00.000-07:00

But I have been blogging…I swear it. Just not here.

No, as of late all blog-related activity has been contained here, to a food blog I’ve launched and maintained for my company, Bullfrog & Baum. But as I’ve come to learn time and time again, it’s best not to discuss my professional matters in a personal capacity. Onward.

All told, the summer treated me reasonably well. The temporary acquisition of a car meant frequent weekend trips from the city, to exotic locales like the Hudson Valley and Brookfield, Connecticut. It’s a far cry from last summer spent negotiating the many perils of Eastern European travel, sure, but I’m a working girl now and that too has its advantages (ex. a diet consisting of more than pilfered oyster crackers and tuna fish).

If we’re even marginally acquainted you’re well aware of my aversion to temperatures above 75 degrees (and that’s pushing it) so I’m in high spirits as of late. Fall tends to be a very fertile time for me creatively; a function, perhaps, of my need to put the more valuable elements of my being in an industrial grade freezer for the summer months. In Autumn I begin to thaw and my shrieking fans reap the many benefits.

Among them (the benefits, not the fans) this season is the aforementioned food blog which has had me skipping pretty through some of the city’s finest dining establishments and several nascent freelance projects. I’ll fight the good fight yet, people...

Tasting the Lemonade # 2, in which the writer is disappointed

2006-05-10T07:33:00.000-07:00

My initial letter showed restraint, of course. It was a quaint and clever missive that merely suggested the profundity of my character, such that I didn’t frighten this boy who, in the depths of my pretensions, I imagined had grown up to be a beer guzzling frat boy type. Bitches and hoes, that sort of thing.

My assumptions were set ablaze when I received his return letter—a lengthy and gracious communiqué that spoke of his fluency in Italian, his travels in central Italy, his thriving love life and ambitious studies at a fine, Northeastern university.

How lovely, I thought. Surely so thoughtful an epistle deserved an equally thoughtful response. And so I set to work, crafting my reply with tenacity and wit. I summoned a tale from the nadir of my memory and used to it illustrate just how pleased I was to see that he had become such a gentleman. So excited was I that I posted a description of the entire event, alongside the letter in question, here.

I sent it on its way and waited patiently for his answer.
I waited.

It’s been a week.

Turns out, I’m more of an Iced Tea kind of girl.

Vamos a la Milonga!

2006-05-09T14:42:00.000-07:00

Years of flip flop wear-age have reduced my once gracefully arched feet into flat, chubby, walking paddles. Not that I’m complaining…after all, walking paddles are good for things like outracing otters and playing ping pong with paraplegics—and I love racin’ and ping pongin’. But when it comes to tango dancing, I’ve got somewhat of a handicap. No bother, I say. Who cares that during my last two tango lessons I’ve moved with all the grace of a pregnant German with sciatica! The right pair of shoes will send me gliding across the dancefloor, knees a kicking, toes a tapping.

So I head to WorldTone, conveniently located around the corner from my office building. I pluck the most classic examples of tango shoes off the racks, run my hands across their shiny leather uppers, their suede soles, their 3.5 inch heels. I hand the shoes to the sales girl smiling; surely these will turn me into the El Cachafaz (were he a somewhat nebbishy woman rather than a dapper Argentine dancer) I’ve always dreamed of being. She returns with the shoes, stacked high in her hands, each box gleaming with possibility. I sit down, open the first box, admire their earthen scent and leathery sheen, and attempt the first, of about 20, struggles to cram my be-pedded feet into the death-claws that would NOT become my magic shoes.

I did however, stumble across two, rather unsexy contenders diagrammed above. As I have explained to anyone with an ear and a sense of rhythm, the T-Strap contenders have about a one-inch heel—quite a departure from the 3 inchers I hobble on daily. I could dance the night away in these babies, tapping and crossing, twisting and stretching…but I just don’t feel sexy in a one inch heel, I just don’t. The other option are these ankle strapped diddies which sport a taller heel and are pretty goddamn comfortable, save a single pinch (see arrow) where my foot chub extends beyond the usual boundaries. They do not, however, have the T Strap of those leggy Argentine hoes. That, plus the foot chub, makes me think I might be better off with the one-inch grannies…but isn’t Tango all about sex appeal? They don’t call it a “3-minute Romance” because it ends with a glass of Metamucil, right?

So I call upon you, my three (count ‘em) loyal readers. What to do?

Baila!

Tasting The Lemonade

2006-05-05T07:11:00.000-07:00

With the advent of Myspace, Friendster, and Facebook, my stalking capabilities have far exceeded the late night drive-bys and threatening notes of my youth. I've spent many, otherwise productive hours, combing the annals of these sites searching for the names and faces that populated my youth. How refreshing then, to receive a request from an old friend, whose slender visage once incited in me all the passion and ardor an 11-year-old could stand to muster.

We’d met at a pool club- Cabana Club located in West Orange, New Jersey. It was the kind of place that stood as a vestige of the past. Turquoise cabanas that, in their heyday, shielded the wealthy from the sun, were then crumbling and peeling, their wood warped and distended with moisture. But still we flocked there. Hundreds of families crowding around mahjong boards, slathering spf and evian mist on our tweeny forms. We were there for the last two summers of the club’s existence, before the teal sign I passed under so many times was released from its perch and a century of suntans were bulldozed to make way for a condo development. For two summers, he and I, along with Kate and Josh, were the very best of friends. We knew nothing of eachothers lives outside the walls of Cabana Club but we were eleven- there was nothing else to know.

Here he is, 11 years later. The same spindly fingers that plucked clumsily at an electric guitar were now tapping away at a keyboard somewhere upstate in search of me. Here was his message in a bottle- a wordless friend request on Facebook!

I wrote him a quick note. Just the basics, lest he be indifferent to my kind advances. But the letter he wrote back was so sincere. He’d clearly grown into a wonderful young man with love and excitement in his life. This was my response to him:

Dear David,

When I was young, well not so young, maybe around the time I knew you, I went with my parents to visit my brother at sleepaway camp. The camp, it turned out, was located not far from the camp that my mother had worked at for many many years in her youth. Walking around the town she pointed out all the things that had changed and all the things that had stayed the same.

She talked about a lemonade that she would always get when she came in to do her laundry. It was the most amazing lemonade, as she described it. Sour and sweet balanced such that neither was more prominent, a beverage so refreshing it could quench no thirst in the present, but only in the realm of her (admittedly somewhat faulty) memory. Then, we saw it, the very same shop selling the very same lemonade that had moistened so many a panting tongue so many years ago. I urged her to go inside and get herself a glass, certainly to get me a glass, and pouted for the rest of the day when she refused to revisit a place that had provided for her so many exquisite memories.

That was probably the day I realized that my mother was extraordinarily wise—she knew that even if the same old man was squeezing the same lemons, the product could never taste as good as it tasted in her memory. I've come to call this the "tasting the lemonade" effect.

I however, have yet to develop the wisdom of my matriarch. I revisit places (like Cabana Club after it was shuttered, but before it was steamrolled), people (like Leigh Feldman who I fell in love with in Egypt at the age of 16 and then invited to my 21st birthday party) and things (like the shoes I whittled down to stubs while living in Paris but still wear in New York because, well, you know). I revisit books and films and clothing and lovers that thrilled me once because I think that maybe, just maybe there's some nectar yet to squeeze from the fruit of my memory. I taste the lemonade, and often, too often, it's sour.

But your note was honest and friendly. And you've traveled and laughed and probably loved. You're not at all disappointing like shuttered pool clubs, indifferent lovers, or tatty stilettos. You're still just David…and you still play the guitar!

Sometimes you've just got to taste the lemonade

*Jordana

Time is Money...

2006-03-28T12:22:00.000-08:00

What follows is an actual email exchange between my beloved and I. Read on and glimpse the depths of our intimacy:

Daniel Krieger to me
1:15 pm (2 hours ago)

My Darling Jordana,

Well well, your family finally has leverage on me for the photographs I have of your father last week cramming egg rolls and soup dumplings down his throat at Big Wong's on Mott Street. The restaurant has tables open to the street and there was a crowd similar to that of one gathered around a street performer, so I elbowed my way in to see what the fuss was about. A waiter almost lost his arm trying to clear a plate off as they were stacked so dangerously high around Glenn. I frantically clicked away as to not miss this once in a lifetme scene, but had to continually stop to clean my lens. Soy sauce and scallion pancakes were flying through the air as he buried into plates of food like a beaver into a tasty fresh log.

Finally reaching satiety, he stood up, daintily brushed the corners of his lip with a wanton wrapper (which he subsequently ate) and said to the memorized crowd, "You didn't see NOTHING!" Then pointed to a woman of ample proportions and said while raising his finger up and starring across the crowd as to make sure no one missed this Rothmanism, "Sorry I didn't leave any food for the FATSO!" She gasped as he smiled triumphantly like he had won a large scale sporting event.

Jordana J Rothman to Daniel
1:46 pm (1½ hours ago)

Sweet Daniel,

Embarassed as I am that you had to witness my father's display of non-discreet carbohydrate consumption, I am equally shamed to have to share the experience I was recently afforded by your own mother.

Never one to turn down a free meal, i accepted Joanie's invitation to her favorite restaurant, TGI Friday's, where she assured me we could get some "great food" served by "really clever waiters." joanie flipped through the novel of a menu and was dismayed to find that they did not have any carlo rossi on the menu- a disappointment of epic proportions, she assured me, as she finds that 10-11 glasses of the fine beverage seem to aid her digestion. She settled for a banana flavored margarita which melted as she snorted uncontrolably over the possibility that a monkey may have defacated in the vicinity of the bananas that were smelled to create the proper arrangement of chemical flavoring to approximate their taste. Joanie then ordered an an assortment of appetizers including the ritz cracker and squeeze cheese nachos, the stale potato chips, and the thrice processed cheddar cubes, her very favorite. she finished the meal by taking a photo of her empty plate and then painting it and then taking a photo of the painting and giving it to the restaurant manager on a plate with a note reading "really enjoyed the rib ticklers, can i get a recipe? my indentured servants daniel and jordana can prepare a few hundred portions for my upcoming opening."

you should really talk to her before she embarrasses you again!

Transit Strike!

2005-12-20T22:36:00.000-08:00

1:36 AM back on terra firma.

Woke up and got ready to go to work, assuming (after last night's late night Brooklyn-bound pilgramage) that the MTA strike hadn't gone off. Went downstairs to enjoy the final 15 minutes I afford myself daily, in which I grind, brew, and imbibe an entire pot of coffee and fry an egg. Woke David, sleeping fully clothed on the couch (what's a Monday without a squatter) and found Aja eating an omlette 2 hours after she should have already been at work.

strike.

Within 10 minutes we had laid down the Israeli music, popped a bottle of Moet, established that our heat was not working, and subsequently fired up the oven, allowing torrents of carbon monoxide to poison our cozy den of iniquity. And it was beautiful.

Woman, thou art loosed...

2005-12-19T20:40:00.000-08:00

I can't even say the word. Blogging. It conjures for me images of fat goth highschoolers who have pierced their tongues in the vain hope of coaxing the genitalia of the opposite sex nearer to their panting, virgin mouths. Doe-eyed girls writhing with discontent, using the internet to somehow project the kind of sexual and emotional freedom that school or work or mom or dad divests them of. Masturbatory. Self-indulgent. My ex boyfriend diddling himself in the cold blue glow of his computer screen, building networks of rejects across invisible pipelines of 0s and 1s. And I don't have a television, and I don't get a paper delivered or pay for an internet connection. And I'm reluctant to commit myself to anything too 21st century. That art never lasts.

But blogging. Blog. Blogger. You read enough of them and you think, maybe. Maybe a forum to air my grievances, my ecstatic discoveries, let breathe the dankest recesses of my mind. A digital rostrum from which I will address droves (one or two) of eager spirits, kindred and contrary alike. I was pierced once, afterall, and doe-eyed and even discontent (I'm still discontent). Maybe if I had a blog I wouldn't have skipped my senior prom to drink jolly-rancher infused Zimas at the Jersey Shore or moved to Delaware or written volumes of poetry as terrible as it was tragic.

So I welcome you to what, like most of my digital endeavors, will likely amount to absolutely nothing. Enjoy my enthusiasm while it lasts, while it's public, before it retreats back into the leather-bound pages of a private book, tucked into my desk drawer. Wish me luck.

~Jordana