Ode to Cholent!

As if I didn't get enough people searching for "cholent" and getting to my blog, I thought I'd provide more reason for such searchers to end up here. Yes, while busy reading over Shabbos the most recent issue of Moment magazine, I happened upon a fascinating article about cholent with a great recipe. The part of the article that really sparked my interest, however, was some lines from a poem by Heinrich Heine called "Sabbath Princess."

It's a long poem, but believe me, it's worth reading, if only because the bits about cholent (called schalet in this poem) is pretty hilarious. Cholent as ambrosia? Oh yes.

And if cholent doesn't strike your fancy, check out their fascinating article on how Jews -- quite literally -- built Alaska.

Princess Sabbath

By Heinrich Heine (Trans. Margaret Armour)

IN Arabia’s book of fable We behold enchanted princes Who at times their form recover, Fair as first they were created.   The uncouth and shaggy monster         5 Has again a king for father; Pipes his amorous ditties sweetly On the flute in jewelled raiment.   Yet the respite from enchantment Is but brief, and, without warning,         10 Lo! we see his Royal Highness Shuffled back into a monster.   Of a prince by fate thus treated Is my song. His name is Israel, And a witch’s spell has changed him         15 To the likeness of a dog.   As a dog, with dog’s ideas, All the week, a cur, he noses Through life’s filthy mire and sweepings, Butt of mocking city Arabs;         20   But on every Friday evening, On a sudden, in the twilight, The enchantment weakens, ceases, And the dog once more is human.   And his father’s halls he enters         25 As a man, with man’s emotions, Head and heart alike uplifted, Clad in pure and festal raiment.   “Be ye greeted, halls beloved, Of my high and royal father!         30 Lo! I kiss your holy door-posts, Tents of Jacob, with my mouth!”   Through the house there passes strangely A mysterious stir and whisper, And the hidden master’s breathing         35 Shudders weirdly through the silence.   Silence! save for one, the steward (Vulgo, synagogue attendant) Springing up and down, and busy With the lamps that he is lighting.         40   Golden lights of consolation, How they sparkle, how they glimmer! Proudly flame the candles also On the rails of the Almemor.   By the shrine wherein the Thora         45 Is preserved, and which is curtained By a costly silken hanging, Whereon precious stones are gleaming.   There, beside the desk already Stands the synagogue precentor,         50 Small and spruce, his mantle black With an air coquettish shouldering;   And, to show how white, his hand is, At his neck he works—forefinger Oddly pressed against his temple,         55 And the thumb against his throat.   To himself he trills and murmurs, Till at last his voice he raises; Till he sings with joy resounding, “Lecho dodi likrath kallah!”         60   “Lecho dodi likrath kallah— Come, beloved one, the bride Waits already to uncover To thine eyes her blushing face!”   The composer of this poem,         65 Of this pretty marriage song, Is the famous minnesinger, Don Jehudah ben Halevy.   It was writ by him in honour Of the wedding of Prince Israel         70 And the gentle Princess Sabbath, Whom they call the silent princess.   Pearl and flower of all beauty Is the princess—not more lovely Was the famous Queen of Sheba,         75 Bosom friend of Solomon,   Who, Bas Bleu of Ethiopia, Sought by wit to shine and dazzle, And became at length fatiguing With her very clever riddles.         80   Princess Sabbath, rest incarnate, Held in hearty detestation Every form of witty warfare And of intellectual combat.   She abhorred with equal loathing         85 Loud declamatory passion— Pathos ranting round and storming With dishevelled hair and streaming.   In her cap the silent princess Hides her modest, braided tresses,         90 Like the meek gazelle she gazes, Blooms as slender as the myrtle.   She denies her lover nothing Save the smoking of tobacco; “Dearest, smoking is forbidden,         95 For to-day it is the Sabbath.   “But at noon, as compensation, There shall steam for thee a dish That in very truth divine is— Thou shalt eat to-day of schalet!         100   “Schalet, ray of light immortal! Schalet, daughter of Elysium!” So had Schiller’s song resounded, Had he ever tasted schalet,   For this schalet is the very         105 Food of heaven, which, on Sinai, God Himself instructed Moses In the secret of preparing,   At the time He also taught him And revealed in flames of lightning         110 All the doctrines good and pious, And the holy Ten Commandments.   Yes, this schalet’s pure ambrosia Of the true and only God: Paradisal bread of rapture;         115 And, with such a food compared,   The ambrosia of the pagan, False divinities of Greece, Who were devils ’neath disguises, Is the merest devils’ offal.         120   When the prince enjoys the dainty, Glow his eyes as if transfigured, And his waistcoat he unbuttons; Smiling blissfully he murmurs,   “Are not these the waves of Jordan         125 That I hear—the flowing fountains In the palmy vale of Beth-el, Where the camels lie at rest?   “Are not these the sheep-bells ringing Of the fat and thriving wethers         130 That the shepherd drives at evening Down Mount Gilead from the pastures?”   But the lovely day flits onward, And with long, swift legs of shadow Comes the evil hour of magic—         135 And the prince begins to sigh;   Seems to feel the icy fingers Of a witch upon his heart; Shudders, fearful of the canine Metamorphosis that waits him.         140   Then the princess hands her golden Box of spikenard to her lover, Who inhales it, fain to revel Once again in pleasant odours.   And the princess tastes and offers         145 Next the cup of parting also— And he drinks in haste, till only Drops a few are in the goblet.   These he sprinkles on the table, Then he takes a little wax-light,         150 And he dips it in the moisture Till it crackles and is quenched.

The Sabbath Manifesto

I'm a sucker for viral web projects, and I just happened upon one (okay, they started following me on Twitter) today. The project? It's called the Sabbath Manifesto. The tagline? "Slowing down lives since 2010."

Listen, when I started going shomer Shabbos, the first thing I tried (keyword: tried) to do was unplug entirely. I did it cold turkey. No internet, no phone, no tv, no iPod. And believe me, it was hell on wheels. But now? I honestly -- and I'm not trying to lift you up and drop you in the dark side of "strict observance" here -- can't survive without Shabbat. My week used to turn into another week and another and months flowed together into years and there was no break; it was a continuous flow of noise and mess and chaos. But when I figured out how to make a day of rest from technology work, it turned into a day of rest from a ton of other things, which turned into a big day of rest from all of the stuff I do every other day of the week. It allowed me to read books for pleasure, talk with people, rest, just sit, to watch life go by around me while I rested, sound and relaxed in mind and thought.

And, you know what, a sabbath -- while it has a loaded "religious" tone -- really is for everyone. I think now about people who function on a 24/7 schedule of Twitter and blogging and Facebook and their phone and text messaging and fidgeting with worthless apps and my face hurts. In a world burdened with noise, I think everyone could take a day to step back and just say "wow, there's more to life than all of this other stuff." I hear from people all the time how mystified they are at the idea of a day without technology, and then later from the same people how they sincerely wish they had the will power to do so.

Of course, the question people always ask: What if there's an emergency? What if someone needs to get ahold of you?

The answer? Nothing is so important that it can't wait a few hours. Someone calls me from Nebraska to say there's an emergency, it's not like I can hop a flight instantly and help it get better. Someone has a pressing question? It can wait. Imagine how things were a hundred years ago -- you had to wait, you didn't have a choice. Did people survive? Heck yeah!

So listen, go to the website, give it a gander, and make it happen. We all need a break; we're on overload; we're liable to implode. Give yourself new life, and wrap yourself around the Sabbath Manifesto.

A good Shabbos to you!

Just wanted to send a quick Shabbat Shalom out into the ether of the internet before the sun disappears (though, since it's cold, rainy and cloudy here I can't see the sun). I'm going to be using my FridayLights.org goods at home tonight and hopefully make it through my (untransliterated) pocket-size Artscroll Siddur. Yes, Shabbos at home. Why? The weather is miserable, that's why! So be well, be safe, be happy, be holy.

The view from the library of the Northwest, from Storrs, CT. (Not today, of course, but last week sometime.)

Kashering Everything!

There was a great article in The New York Times yesterday about technology and advancements in making life easier in the Orthodox community when it comes to Shabbos. The Zomet Institution and Kosher Innovations have both managed to create a host of interesting ways to apply technology on the Sabbath, including a lamp that you don't have to turn off but merely has a twisting shade to cover up the light and an observant alarm clock. Interesting and news to me is that Whirlpool and Viking have put Sabbath mode settings on most of their ovens, refrigerators, and even wine cellars. I thought those were special-order kinds of things!

But it's things like this that I just don't get:

Zomet created the metal detectors used to screen worshippers at the Western Wall, Judaism’s holiest site, in a manner that uses electricity in a way not prohibited on the Sabbath. It also developed pens that use ink that disappears after a few days, based on a rabbinic interpretation that only forbids permanent writing, and Sabbath phones, which are dialed in an indirect manner with special buttons and a microprocessor.

I mean, how can you use electricity "in a way not prohibited on the Sabbath" ...? Can someone explain that one to me? I'm terribly curious! I think the Sabbath phones are useful, as the article says that the Israeli army uses them for soldiers, which makes sense. Said Rabbi Herschel Schachter about such innovations: “if you make the burden slightly lighter, it’s O.K. The Torah doesn’t want to make life impossible.” At any rate, an interesting article to check out if you ask me.

Oh! And those of you who were wondering how my date went ... it went quite well. Here are some pictures for your viewing enjoyment. I think I'm hooked on letterboxing, though, because it's so nifty. I just need to figure out what I want my stamp of choice to be that represents me. Oh what to choose ...

A Birthright.

I'm standing just off the curb near the bus stop, watching taxicabs and cars zip by, waiting for a free space in the traffic to make it across Broadway. Really, I'm at ease -- my skirt flapping wildly in the wind; gale force winds have painted the day. I wanted very much to just stand there, eyes closed, early summer wind brushing over and around me, making my kosher-for-shul skirt dance. And then there's a clearing, and I run, sandles clicking against the ground, and I'm thinking: when did skirts become oppressive. And then I'm thinking: I should blog about this and shul tonight and about how it's hard to fight the urge to blog after something beautiful whips around your mind making it difficult to think -- you must get the words out in some form, else they'll continue to stir up and around making it uneasy to concentrate, to breathe.

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I showed up 15 minutes late to shul. I followed a young couple in and as they were picking through the headcoverings I opened the sanctuary door to find it empty. I tucked myself into their space and asked if they knew what time services were. I then found out that sometimes they have services in the basement, in the room where on my first visit to the Orthodox shul they'd had a Shabbat dinner and where I'd scooted myself into an already-full table of Jews. I plodded down the steps and there, in the big room, were crowded dozens of congregants separated women from men by a lace curtain divider. I (reluctantly) grabbed my transliterated (brown) siddur and grabbed a seat. The men's side was pretty hoppin', and the woman I'd run into mentioned that when they have services downstairs, there's dancing and lively(er) singing. Now, I'd skipped a service at the Conservative shul because I was hoping to avoid acoustic guitars and the like, so it was funny that the Orthodox shul had a similar thing going down; but rest assured, there were no drums or guitars or anything aside from the voices -- the beautiful voices -- of the congregants.

I quickly found my place in the siddur, but realized for the first time at the Orthodox shul that I really loathe the transliterated version. The thing is, the transliteration does that whole "s" versus "t" bit from the Ashkenazi/Sephardi pronunciations and it just throws me. I know the prayers, but when you're staring at a transliterated page you have a tendency to read what you're given and it's just frustrating. If only everything weren't so ... fast. Yes, if things were slower I could probably keep up in the Hebrew. But at the same time, the pace is what enthralls and excites me. There is so much, so very much, and all of it is beautiful. I found myself marveling tonight at how quickly I was moving along in some of the prayers you find in all shuls for the ma'ariv. I wouldn't change the service at all. It's me who needs to change. The Hebrew needs to be like a second skin, a glove. I should be able to open the siddur and know precisely where we are in the service, know the words and the melodies. And in due time, well, I'll be there.

And there was dancing. On the men's side, anyhow. The women sort of smiled and looked on over the divider as the rabbi and several other (also rabbis) danced in a circle. I wish I could convey the beauty that emanates from this congregation when they're singing and davening. It's like our entire past, all of our ancestors, are in the room voices belting loudly in many different melodies making the most serene sound. I can close my eyes and it's as if the entire room has become Israel -- the people, the entire congregation. And that, of course, is what Shabbat is meant to be. I've never experienced that before, that washed over feeling of generations past and present alive in the voices of those singing and davening.

But then there is the guilt. I left services, opting to skip out on a (most likely delicious) Shabbat dinner to go home. The day left me weary -- the heat was suffocating and the wind left me feeling worn. I need sleep, it's true, and I have many a plan for the weekend (not partying hard, folks, but going to a green market and chalk art festival and book fair). The entire week drifted by seemingly without any sleep, and despite the joy and absolute happiness I feel when joining a Shabbat table, I knew I needed to come home. I trekked down the street and, seeing two buses coming, stopped at the corner and waited. As I stood there, people leaving the Orthodox shul walked by, and a feeling of dread overcame me. I began to think, What will they think of me? Am I being judged? Should I just start walking so they think perhaps I was just taking an idle break?
No one said anything to me. They probably didn't even notice me. I'm sure there are plenty of people who take the bus -- not everyone lives in the eruv or within walking distance, right? I was over-thinking it. But having already started thinking about blogging about services, I'd also turned on my Blackberry, which I subsequently (and shamefully) shoved in my bag. The bus came, I hopped on, pulled out Potok, and read the entire way home.

And now, we're back to where we began.

I'm trying to figure out how to reconcile a lot of things. From what I hear, this (modern) Orthodox shul isn't like other Orthodox shuls. The rabbi is one of a kind. The people? Also unique. The atmosphere? You won't find it anywhere else. I'm beginning to worry: Is this going to turn into another situation like with my "starter shul" back in Nebraska? Will it come to be that no shul on the planet will be able to compare with this shul? On the same note, is this synagogue "acceptable" in its Orthodoxy or is it talked about by the folks up in West Rogers Park and Skokie? Scratch that. Now that I think about it, every year I guess there's a mass migration of new families from this Orthodox shul up to the Orthodox neighborhoods in the near suburbs. They even have little reunions I guess. So yes, it's kosher.

Why am I asking all these questions? Who cares?

While standing in services, not paying attention to the prayer, my eyes floated through the lace curtain to all the young bachelors. I began to wonder (so much thinking going on) whether -- if I really wanted to land me a nice Orthodox boy -- this whole conversion debacle would make someone apprehensive about me, even if I had chosen to convert Orthodox. Would it keep someone from loving me? From accepting me? And how would I handle that. Is it even worth it? Afterall, I've been known to be in love with goyim (past and present).

Oy. My head hurts from all the thinking, but this is what shul does to me. I go, I experience something beautiful, I leave, I begin to think. Sometimes I wonder if my approach to Judaism is too academic, too serious, too fretful. And then I step back and look at those words and think of the sages and great thinkers and realize no, this is precisely what I'm meant to do. It's who I am.

It's my birthright.

A rest, and a realization.

I turned on the TV to the Southside Irish Parade here in Chicago -- a prideful, celebratory day of drunkenness and revelry to honor St. Patrick's Day (still a week or so off). I flipped a few channels away and I'm now watching the Jewish Americans on PBS. The portion celebrates the Jewish integration into American society in the 1950s. And then ...

I'm trying to figure out how I missed it. The massacre. The small scale destruction of my people, that surely represents the desires, the need for the complete destruction of my people. It happened on Thursday night, in Jerusalem. On the other side of the world, away from where I was. They were boys, mere children, studying in the library of the Mercaz Harav yeshiva when hundreds of rounds of ammo were sprayed, killing eight. The oldest was 26, the age of my older brother, the rest were 15 or 16, the age of my younger brother.

[The killer's] family said that although he had been intensely religious, he was not a member of any militant group, and he had planned on marrying this summer. But he had been transfixed by the bloodshed in Gaza, where 126 Palestinians died from Wednesday through Monday, his sister, Iman Abu Dhaim, told The Associated Press.

It is with this that I wonder, I rack my brain and clench my fists wondering -- WHY then? Why must you kill these youths to avenge the completely unrelated deaths of 126 Palestinians? Why, why would you target students!? Studying, over Torah, studying the historic texts of our people, and then there you are spraying bullets, murdering them. Murdering the learning. It boggles my mind, it shatters my spirit, it makes me scared. It reminds me that as a Jew, I am not safe, for there are those who wish to remove my mark from the map. It's the response to history, and it's the response to extremism. I'm still reading Constantine's Sword, watching as the Catholic Church permitted the destruction of Jews throughout the ages, and here in the present there are Islamic extremists who condone the destruction of the Jews. Will there be rest?

Sigh. I'm supposed to go Israel this summer. And still, I will go.

It devastates me to see this, and to not have seen it before Shabbat, and now I feel guilty that I did not know. That I could not reflect, think on, pray for the families of this situation. But I turned off and shut down on Shabbat and it was amazing. It was inspiring and reflecting and it makes you conscious of those other aspects of Shabbat that should be kept.

I did not use my phone, my computer, my iPod, and I did not write. I did not kindle a flame (despite wanting to light candles to create an aroma in the apartment). I read quite a bit, took a nap, went to a movie, and enjoyed silence and stillness. I turned on my television for 15 minutes, because briefly I was feeling a little pent up in the apartment. I realized how wasteful and pointless it was, so I shut it off. I became more conscious of aspects of Shabbat, like carrying money, carrying at all, turning the lights on and off, cooking. My mind was more at ease. And I have to say taking the day to turn off was outstanding, and I intend on continuing the trend (sans when my little brother is here, since, well, that's a complicated situation). I think that it will ease my mind, and it will allow me to calm myself a bit. I look forward to this ... and taking on more mitzvot in the process.

And now, the mourner's prayer, the Kaddish.

Crazy Busy -- Shutting Down and Zoning Out.

I'm finding it easier to listen to Jewish music right now than any other, except maybe French music. I find that listening to music where the words are more or less sounds (in that, I can only understand bits and pieces) is easier on the heart and the mind. Plus, it's easier to get things done when you aren't listening to the words very carefully like I do. I think I put far too much weight on the words, anyhow. But I'm a sap, I can't help it.

I just saw this bit over on LifeHacker about how Modern Life Inhibits Creativity. I think this is sort of a given, but the tidbit features the book CrazyBusy by ADD expert Dr. Edward Hallowell. LifeHacker says:

"... Hallowell argues that Crackberry culture leads to ADD-like symptoms in people that don't officially have the disorder — a problem he calls Attention Deficit Trait (ADT). While Hallowell's fondness for making up words like "gigaguilt" and "screensucking" can be annoying, the overall message of CrazyBusy is that we all need to slow down and think in order to innovate instead of being constantly on the go in a frenzied (dumb) state of mind."

I'll admit that getting a BlackBerry probably hasn't helped my over-active state of mind, which plays into my inability to sleep, keep a single thought, or be calm for more than a few seconds. Is it ADT? Or ADD? Maybe I should read that book.

The more I think about it, the more I think that I'd be better off to REALLY turn my world off on Shabbat -- not just to not work (though this isn't a problem since I've been reassigned, I don't even check my work e-mail at night or on weekends), but to not check e-mail or use the computer at all. Of course the problem with this is that I have e-mail on my BlackBerry and while I could easily log out, would I also want to detach myself from my phone? Or rather, would I physically be able to?

I think everyone -- Jew or not -- needs a break. A chance to turn off and spend 24 hours un-clutched from the world of technology. One hundred years ago, even 50 years ago, people filled their time well enough, so why do we have so much STUFF and why do we feel like we need to be occupied 24/7? What happened to a good book, sitting, thinking, pondering?

In Shabbat in the Age of Technology, Menachem Wecker writes,

"Aish HaTorah’s Web site calls Shabbat the 'one final parcel of absolute and unconditional silence' in an 'era of Blackberries and Bluetooths,' where peace and quiet are 'basically extinct.' Chabad’s Web site compares Shabbat to 'an island of tranquility in the maelstrom of work, anxiety, struggle and tribulation that characterizes our daily lives for the other six days of the week.' "

In Wecker's article are comments from Carla Rolfe, a Christian blogger, who makes a poignant observation:

"When someone is afraid of silence, it’s often because it forces them to think about things they are normally able to avoid through external stimulation or distraction."

I'll admit that there is a 100 percent truth in this. But it's a chicken or the egg situation. My mind is a rumble, perhaps from the constant e-universe that I reside in, and the only way to quell such a neurotic existence is to take the time to turn it all off, but in turning it all off, I'm left with my thoughts. Is it a practice-makes-perfect situation? If I abstain from technology and the things that keep me tied up for well over 80 hours a week over an extended period, will I find calm, peace, and will my thoughts finally rest and settle? Or it is just a vicious cycle that all the Shabbating in the world cannot cure?

Of course with the idea of "shutting off" comes the need to contact everyone I know who calls me on Shabbat -- okay, maybe just my parents -- to say "listen, don't call." I could well enough leave the calls to my voicemail, and calls would go immediately there, but then my parents will get worried. They'll also forget. Luckily, my phone isn't heavily trafficked by callers. It seems a lot more difficult than it is. And then there's the Internet. To turn my computer completely off is, well, it hurts to think about it.

But so much of observance is taking things one step at a time. You can't just dive right in (or maybe you can, but I'm not willing to do this, it's too difficult and would probably shock my system and send me into some type of withdrawal). So maybe this week I'll turn off my phone, and we'll start there. Then maybe next week, I'll turn off the computer. And then the next week? Who knows. I think the hardest thing to cease and desist from would be writing -- I'm a constant note-taker. I'm sure there's a ruling against using sticky flags in books on Shabbat, as well, but I suppose that would aid a little bit in that problem (and I'm also a compulsive sticky-noter, too).

So now that I'm done rambling about rest, Shabbat, turning off and shutting down -- how do YOU break away? Is it just a few hours? A whole day? Have you achieved zen through ignoring the world? Tell me how you do it, folks. I'm in need of some help shutting off and zen-ing out.