They Float! or Thanks Julia or Does this mean I pass?

"They float ....they float!"

My husband walked into the house and looked confused.

Was this really his wife standing over the stove peering into a boiling pot with a wooden spoon in my hand? Does he have the wrong house? Wrong wife?

"They float!"

I was estactic.

I'd been anxious all afternoon ....hoovering over the recipe for Matzoh balls.

I had spent 13 hours with Julia Child last week....and I was actually convinced that there could be some pleasure in cooking....which rubbed against my long held belief that the most pleasure I could ever derive from cooking was watching men....cook for me.

Of course, I really didn't spend 13 hours with Julia....she's moved on to cooking heaven....but during my long drives back and forth to my parent's house in Chicago over the last few weeks....I started listening to audio tapes and finished "My Life in France," a memoir detailing Julia's love affair with French food and cooking.

I expected lots of foodie talk and sections about cooking....but what I didn't know or expect was that Julia was not a born cook.

In fact, she didn't start cooking till she moved to France and was in her forties!

My jaw dropped open and remained so for many interstate miles.

I thought good cooks emerged from the womb with whisks clenched in their little chubby fists.

But here was this woman....starting her cooking career ........in mid-life.

So last week.....a bit inspired.......I texted my husband...... "I'm cooking something for dinner."

He called back.....

"You're cooking?"

"I'm cooking"

"You are cooking."

"I am cooking ."

Silence.....he probably thought it was a delayed April Fool's Day prank.

But no joke, I pulled a tattered copy of my Southern Ham soup recipe out of the kitchen drawer and began.

Southern ham....unlike anything I ever eaten up north.....has a thick coarse coating of black pepper.



I was raised on Krakow ham which arrives in large tins from Poland.

My mother and grandmother pulled the formed meat out of the tin then covered the top of the ham with a thick blanket of brown sugar.

My job was to secure pineapple rings and a cherries in decorative patterns with toothpicks when the ham was almost done baking.

In contrast to this delicate pink ham ....Southern ham is spicy, meatier, and sliced thick........ and there's no such thing as a dainty ham down here........ which means lots of left overs.

Faced with a mound of peppery ham after some holiday and not enough freezer space.....I decided to make soup....combining regional veggies with the ham......black-eyed peas........green peppers....onions.....and some cherry bell peppers....and of course it had to be in a red base....after all this is the South.

Mmmmm......so good....I exhausted my entire supply of innovative recipe ideas....and haven't created anything since then.





I admit.... hoovering over the stove as the aromatic soup cooked was a pleasant and pleasing experience....and combining the soup with a fresh warm loaf of multi-grain bread plus my favorite French butter....would have made even Julia purr.
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This week....of course.....is a special week.....Easter celebrations for some....but for me...in Jew school.....and celebrating Passover....a challenge.
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Could I actually make at least one traditional food ?? With one recent soup success under my belt......I decided to try Matzoh ball soup.
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Although there's a recipe on the Matzoh meal can, I found one on the web by a woman with a comforting Jewish-sounding name and cast my fate with her.
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I made slight variations to her recipe....using organic brown eggs.... and kosher sea salt....and I decided I wasn't going to sink my balls (so to speak) in just plain broth (very traditional) but would make my soup with fresh vegetables and kosher chicken.

But as I placed the Matzoh in the boiling water.....I started to panic.....I felt like I was looking into one of those Magic 8 balls ...the mini bowling ball with the transparent window....where a little triangle answers your whispered question..... and a bobbing piece of plastic floats up and says....Yes....No.....Uncertain....Maybe.
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I would like to lie....and tell you I had an interesting question....a funny question....or even a cooking question......but....(and I am embarrassed to admit this)....it was like my Matzoh balls were my Jew School Final Exam.
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Float and she passes.......Sink and remain doughy.....and she fails.

It seemed touch and go at first......

they sunk....(is that what they usually do?)

but then......

they rose....they bobbed.....they floated up and down in the brisk boiling water.....

like ping pong balls (sort of).

I had passed!

and.....

I even had class in the evening....so I could tell everyone I made Matzoh ball soup from scratch and it was Good!

I told the Rabbi about my accomplishments....and that my balls floated........he chuckled....

"Well you know Gina, traditionalists don't eat Matzoh today....it would be the equivalent of ordering a turkey sandwich the night before Thanksgiving...the idea being you should wait till the Passover celebration."

"Oh"

My heart sank.....but at least I know my Matzoh balls floated.

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My Life as A Bookseller......Part 3

Returning to the Information Desk, I hear a familiar British voice. "I'm thinking I might get this today." British Cooking Man, one of my favorite regular Sunday customers and a balm to my irritated nerves from the Too-Hot-Tea-Lady, has a huge cookbook parted open and is studying a recipe near the desk.

"Did you bring me something to eat?" He laughs and ignores my hope that someday he'll bring something tasty for me to sample. He comes in almost every Sunday and must own at least 100 cookbooks.... if not more. I help him find and order books each week. I've known him for over two years now. He's given up trying to have a meaningful conversation with me about cooking or recipes. He knows I don't cook and although I try hard to focus on his discussion of chefs or ingredients...my eyes glaze over and I want to shout...."Please...you cook....I'll set the table and bring the wine." Which I believe is my automatic response to any who man tries to talk recipes with me.

Early in my adult life, I accepted my cooking disability and made an important decision. I would never fall in love with a man who didn't or wouldn't cook for me. In fact, I developed a philosophy about men who cooked....believing they were analytical but sensuous, logical but also generous. When I was dating my husband, he mentioned he could bake cookies....and zoomed to the top of my interesting man list. I also have a theory about left-handed men who cook...but ...that's another story.

British Cooking Man is hot on the trail of a Mexican cookbook today so we head down the aisle towards the appropriate shelf. Midway there, we have to step over a woman who is sprawled out onto the floor with a notebook and a cookbook. It's not unusual to find women on the floor of the cooking aisle....apparently recipes....interesting recipes.....make them weak in the knees and they collapse right there on the spot to read them....or they come prepared with a notebook to copy recipes. I've watched women create an entire dinner party menu from appetizers to deserts while sprawled in our aisles. I wonder why they don't get up and simply carry the books to a table. Perhaps they would feel guilty copying the recipes since everyone would see what they were doing.... I guess it's better to block an aisle and pretend you accidentally fell to the floor in a most unusual spasm taking a notebook, pencil, and cookbook with you to the ground.

British Cooking Man walks off with his new prize. I find another book out of place propped up against a shelf. It's called, "The Game." It's an instructional pick-up manual for men. I pop it open and cringe. Sometimes I'm not thrilled to learn about how men think. This is ..unique....the book suggests a man carry a bit of lint around with him. You see... if you're near a beautiful woman out in public you can toss a lint on her when she's not looking and then gallantly say to her, " You have some lint on your sweater." The woman will assume you are kind and gallant man because you saved her from social embarrassment. She will now smile and talk to you.....a man she would have never paid any attention to before .......but now that you are her lint-knight in shining armor.....she will gaze at you appreciatively.

I pop the manual back in the shelf and make a note to be suspicious of any man who has lint discussions with me. I head back to the desk and see the Cross-Dresser is cruising into the Sci-Fi section. Cross -Dresser is a man who comes in mostly dressed as a woman. Today he is wearing a purple minister's shirt and collar (his male half) tucked into a tight fitting black skirt with black hose and black high heel shoes. His short gray hair is in a pony-tail with numerous bobby-pins holding his hair in place. He doesn't wear make-up and he usually is ....half and half ....in gender apparel. He has a killer taste in high heels....I'm envious of the gorgeous classy shoes he wears (obviously expensive) and his ability to walk in those spike heels in a non-challent manner ( I can wobble if I'm out of practice). He also has drop-dead shapely shaved legs. He's been coming into the store in his half and half attire since I started here...five years ago.

I remember the first time I met Cross-Dresser. I was heading out of the store; he was heading into the store. I had a white oxford shirt on, black skirt, fishnet stockings (there's a long story behind the stockings) and black heels. He was wearing.... almost.... the exact same outfit. A white men's shirt, black skirt, fishnets, and heels. We stared at each other. I remember I told him I liked his shoes. He told me he liked my fishnets. I walked out of the store thinking...wow....isn't this a great place to work?