A blog, mostly about my work making Jewish ritual objects, but with detours into garment making, living in New York City, cooking, and other aspects of domestic life.
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The Last Gasp of Autumn
For a little while, it had seemed like autumn would just last forever.
Over the past week or so fewer and fewer leave have been hanging on to the trees.
The low sun in the afternoon sky glowing through the leaves is just a joy.
But since I took those photos last week, it has turned into winter.
I cleaned the wax off of all of the Chanukiyot and put them all away until next year.
Our table will be filled this Shabbat. We are feeding our guests the contents of our crock pot.
I am not including a photo of the pinkie finger that I sliced in the making of dinner, nor a photo of my husband who hates the sight of blood bandaging me up.
We are now passing through to the other side of the darkest part of the year.
A few months ago I had a craving for my fatherās chicken fricassee. If my father were still alive I would have called him up and he would have talked me through the process of making it. My father is no longer alive so I turned to my cookbooks and the recipes I found for chicken fricassee were nothing at all like the stew of chicken necks, gizzards and wings in a watery sweet and sour tomato sauce that I enjoyed as a kid. I assumed that the dish was an invention of my fatherās. I then attempted to replicate the dish from my memory of it and failed. A couple of weeks ago I saw an article on the internet, and I canāt remember where, that talked about Jewish fricassee and it sounded an awful lot like the dish I was hankering after. This afternoon I went to the butcher and picked up all of the chicken elements of the dish, a couple of packages each of wings, necks and gizzards. My father never cooked directly from a cook book. He used to re...
×Ö°× Ö¶×Ö±×Öø× ×Ö·×ŖÖ¼Öø× ×Ö°×Ö·×Ö²××Ö¹×Ŗ ×Öµ×ŖÖ“××: ×Ö¼Öø×Ø×Ö¼×Ö° ×Ö·×ŖÖ¼Öø× ×Ö°×Ö¹×Öø× ×Ö°×Ö·×Ö¼Öµ× ×Ö·×Ö¼Öµ×ŖÖ“×× You are faithful to restore the dead to life. Blessed are You, Adonoy, Resurrector of the dead. That particular line is recited at every single prayer service every day three times a day, unless you use a Reform or Reconstructionist prayer book . In those liturgies instead of praising God for resurrecting the dead God is praised for giving life to all. I am enough of a modern woman, a modern thinker, to not actually believe in the actual resurrection of the dead. I don't actually expect all of the residents of the Workmen's Circle section of Mount Hebron cemetery in Queens to get up and get back to work at their sewing machines. I don't expect the young children buried here or the babies buried here to one day get up and frolic. Yet, every single time I get up to lead services I say those words about the reanimating of the dead with every fiber of my being. Yesterday, I e...
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