Postcards from Autumn

A red kite blooms in the air with the sweeping gulls

And sails like a leaf raining to the moistened earth.

Bright colored fleeces and pumpkin patterned leggings

Spring about the woodchips like lambs.

Piles of firewood peak out from under the porch,

Behind overgrown marigolds

And wind chimes awakened

By the stirring wind.

Crooked nosed gargoyles

Hatch between the freeze-thaw cracked walls.

Crashed helicopters and seed pods

Perfume the chilled air

As bitter as gooseberry green growing leaves.

Take heed of the glints and flashes of autumn

Whose bright pigments like wet paint

Are soon to drip into a slushy pool:

Summer’s sulking death mask, winter’s unwelcome conception.

Read This! I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith

I can’t say how long and hard I looked for this book, in libraries, used bookstores, new bookstores. I finally stumbled upon it in a small independent bookstore I was positive wouldn’t have it. A friend once recommended it to me a few years ago and I loved it but never finished it; I don’t remember the reason. Now I’ve come back to give this lovely book justice.

Dreamy Cassandra Mortmain is the second daughter of a burned out writer living in the romantic English countryside… in part of a ruined castle! As her family deals with issues both financial and emotional, she begins to practice her own writing, recording her life at the castle in a shorthand journal. Through times of joy, sorrow and confusion, she never fails to make witty observations of the people and places around her. Ultimately, it is a story about love, its difficulties in the life of a teenage girl and its many forms.

This is a romance of a sort, so if babble about relationships and such is not for you, this book probably will not be either. However, I’d stress that the exquisite writing is reason enough to read it. The descriptions have that magical quality of transplanting the reader into the castle and the English countryside eighty years ago. Each character’s flaws contribute to a sincere portrait of a person who is neither hero nor villain. This book would often make me giggle suddenly, causing people to stare (and hopefully wonder, “What is that funny book?”). I think it’s also worth mentioning that Dodie Smith authored The Hundred and One Dalmatians as well, not a surprise considering the lovable nature she gave the Mortmains’ pooch, Heloise. There are quite a few hilarious one-liners about Heloise in I Capture the Castle, but it would be a crime to give any of them away. 

My only warning is that at times, I found Cassandra’s indecision and naivety a bit frustrating, but I think this irritation was due more to my impatience than to any fault of the writing. Perhaps that was why I put it down originally. Readers today expect every book to feel like a movie, but the nature of I Capture the Castle is different (it was written in 1948), and perhaps it’s more realistic that way. Therefore, I stress some patience and understanding with Cassandra’s wails and woes; you won’t regret it.     

Here’s the first little passage to wet your metaphorical appetite for the lovely writing…

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining-board, which I have padded with our dog’s blanket and tea-cosy. I can’t say that I am really comfortable, and there is a depressing smell of carbolic soap, but this is the only part of the kitchen where there is any daylight left. And I have found that sitting in a place where you have never sat before can be inspiring — I wrote my very best poem while sitting on the hen house.

Tasting the English flavor yet? Don’t make me spoil anymore. This book is simply delightful!

Wildflowers perfect for Cassandra's Midsummer rites.

Home Tweet Home Short Story

Please understand that this is completely a work of fiction and no offense is intended.

I live in the “O” in Osco, as in the Jewel Osco on Pulaski and Foster. Now don’t look so confused; my home is no different from yours. It’s not very large, just big enough to fit the five of us: my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Lightwing, my cock of brother, Robin, my chick sister, Jay, and me. Sure it’s no five star hotel (although I once knew a sparrow who lodged at a Hilton) or snazzy mansion, but I’m glad to have it. When we were misbehaved chicks, Mama would puff herself up and say, “Be grateful for what we have fledglings! Do you want to live underneath an air conditioning unit that rumbles all summer long and drips on you all night? Do you want to live in some rusty old gutter, where the lightest gust of wind could knock you out of the nest?” At which point we would shiver in fright and shake our heads so fiercely we might be owls.

These horror stories have stuck with me. I know Mama was telling the truth about them for even she has nightmares of them, waking periodically in the night and squawking, “No! The height! The pavement! My dear eggs will become omelets!” Then she sees that it’s only a customer leaving the store in a hurry and dropping her carton of eggs below us. When she sees that we are all sound in our “O,” she finally settles down again and we can go back to sleep.

Yes, I love our home. Mama and Papa built the nest with their own two beaks, laboriously lugging twigs from the park behind the building to our “O” one by one, then weaving and packing them together with mud. They used only the sturdiest branches for the frame and the nicest smelling pine needles for the floor. Feathers Mama plucks out of her own breast make our downy beds and she always keeps the space clean and tidy. Because we live in the “O,” the top arch shields us from the rain, like it’s giving our nest a big, protecting hug. A family of pigeons once tried to build in the “J” but found that without that top of the “O,” they were often drenched and unhappy. That’s pigeons for ya…

Don’t realtors say location, location, location? Because that’s another bonus to our nest. The park and the river behind us are perfect for communing with other fowl, especially the Great Heron who guards the river from those too foolish to keep clear of the toxic waters. That’s life lesson number two, according to Papa. Never drink the river water because if the sewage doesn’t kill you, a crayfish will pop out and snap off your beak surely. Life lesson number one, of course, is the most sobering and important lesson a young birdie can learn: when you sit to roost on the long wires between the big, tall poles, takeoff and fly, don’t return to the ground right away, else some alley kitty is going to have fried drumsticks for dinner.

My life is rather cushy. We are never in want of food. The Salvation Army lady always takes off her red apron, puts down her bell and sits on the curb at twelve o’clock for lunch— always a sandwich, usually ham and swiss. If I perch on her collection box, look up at her hopefully and give a little tweet she’ll usually give me some nice crust for a snack. I’m a pretty chubby thing, it’s not down, trust me.

Robin drives Papa crazy with his singing. He’s learned all the Jewel jingles by heart, and even likes to imitate the checkouts beeping. His next goal is to mimic the self-service counters. “Please place all scanned items in bagging area,” we hear all day. He thinks he’s so cool.

Mama is ready to teach Jay how to fly and I’ve been helping her along by building up those wing muscles of hers before she has to rely on them for survival. I don’t know how soon it will happen, she still makes Mama and Papa feed her seed from their mouths even though she’s a big girl now. All she needs is a little more time. But then something happened that spoiled all our plans.

It happened on the day Papa found out about Robin’s random acts of vandalism with a flock of unsavory downtown pigeons. It wasn’t that Papa minded what Robin did— for he’s almost full grown and Papa knows Robin will fly away from home soon— but where. Robin defaced private property.

“I can’t believe you went out defecating on fancy sport cars!” Papa shouted.

Robin just bowed his head and sulked. “All the other birds do it! It’s cool, it teaches the humans who are boss.”

“Don’t you see?” Papa groaned, “We are in a very delicate situation here at the grocery store. We have a sort of unvoiced agreement with the managers. They let us live here. We don’t have a poop party in the parking lot! I just hope no one important had their shiny clean windshields mucked…”

Robin blushed at this, for he had been aiming at the shiniest, cleanest cars in the lot. Unfortunately, one of the victimized cars was a silver Lexus belonging to a much peeved health inspector. We saw him sniffing about the premises with his clipboard under his arm, pens in ears and reading glasses on nose— not the cheap kind from here at the pharmacy, but the fancy designer ones by Calvin Klein or somebody else who thinks their name is so clever they have to put it on everything. The manager, the chief butcher, the baker and the florist were shuffling behind him. The butcher wiped his hands incessantly on his stained apron, until he realized it wasn’t making his hands look any cleaner and he started using the baker’s apron instead.

As we looked down at the scene below us, we could see the tension in the manager’s face ease as the inspection continued. It must have been going well. They were talking now. Or rather, the inspector was talking and the manager was nodding at all the appropriate places. We couldn’t hear what he was actually saying so we just interpreted the stifled smiles on the grocers’ faces. Then we heard the big “but” and it was with ellipsis— I could hear them in his trailing off voice.

“But?” the manager inquired anxiously.

“But you have some pests out here that question the hygiene of the establishment. These winged rodents for instance.”

Now our whole family was listening carefully. “Rodents? Winged?” Mama snorted. “I’ll show him, calling us rodents!”

“He’s probably just talking about the pigeons,” said Robin. “Everyone knows pigeons are the vermin of the air. They’re the ones causing trouble.”

“Robin…” Papa snarled. “What did I tell you? I don’t want to hear anymore of these racist remarks! A pigeon is just a dove with a little coloring.”

“Hush!” Jay squeaked. “I want to hear what they’re saying.”

Below us, the inspector was practically on his knees before the health inspector. “We’ve never had a problem before, sir.”

“So far you haven’t… Animals carry diseases and —let’s face it— they’re troublemakers. I doubt your customers want a hungry bird to snatch away a loaf of bread they just bought or, just as they open their trunks to put away their groceries, to get a hand full of bird feces! It’s just plain nasty.”

Then his sunken gray eyes turned up towards our nest. We instantly ducked our heads in fright.

“The premise needs to be sprayed and trapped,’ he announced smugly, “The bird nests and beehives, whatever’s making its home in your building, removed. And I insist you install those pointy things on your sign to keep the pests from returning.”

In that moment, we knew we were done for. Our happy lives would have to take a dramatic turn. We were going to lose our home! There was no use in blaming Robin, for we needed to face the challenge as a family, not argue. Something that once before would be the subject of a serious family meeting was now reduced to silliness.

Mama and Papa went out in turns to discuss the health inspector’s verdict with the other neighborhood birds. The Finches were happy in the park, the Mallards in an alcove of the river beneath the bridge, the Cardinals in the drainpipe of another nearby building… With great sadness, we realized our only choice was to find a new home and take off.

Mama and I toiled hard to get Jay flying. Wherever the move would be, it would involve forcing her out of the nest and we worried about how she would fair. Papa eventually came back that night with word that he had found a nice spot in the cemetery to start building a new nest, but it was a long way for never-before-used little wings. While Mama, Papa and Robin went to check out the tree Papa chose and to start twig gathering, I stayed home with Jay and drilled her on flying.

I don’t know how we thought we were going to do it. It was just cruel how we were being evicted without notice and without time to prepare, for the next day a big truck pulled into the lot and parked right below the “Jewel” portion of the sign in the fire engine lane. It had a big crane on the truck bed with a little box attached for a person to stand inside while the machine erected the crane. What strange contraptions humans come up with to compensate for their lack of wings! Personally I’m terrified of their metal monsters in the sky, especially after Great Uncle Raven meet his grave in one’s spinning mouth. Anyway, by six thirty in the morning, a worker was already in the little box, up high by the “J”, cleaning the signs and installing painful looking spikes on the edges. I had been planning to let Jay sort of “hop” her way to our new home in the cemetery with a few, short, quick flights to make it easy on her, the first of which would be from our “O” to the lip of the “L”. I guessed that idea was for the can now…

“Hurry, Jay,” I said. “We’ve got to go soon or they’ll come and get us!”

Jay was almost tearful. “I can’t! I can’t! My wings are sore from trying so hard… I can barely flap them.”

I tried to be encouraging. “You can do it, sis. Just watch me again.”

I took off from the nest, flew a loop-dee-loop and landed easily on the curb below her.

“See? It’s easy,” I called to her.

Then I heard her squeak in fright, for a shopping cart nearly ran me over. Fortunately, the shopper stopped the cart in the nick of time and looked down on me. Honestly, I was too scared and too shocked by the close encounter with death to move out of the way.

It was a woman with skin as speckled as a robin’s egg and sandy blonde hair splaying out of a ponytail. She put her cart aside and crouched on the ground before me.

“Are you ok, little guy?” she said with the biggest blue eyes all sad and worried.

I stood still, staring at her. I had never been so close to a human before, not even to the Salvation Army lady, and I didn’t know what to do. I could hear Jay squeaking wildly at me to fly away but for some reason I didn’t. Then I noticed the green pins on the lady’s jacket, “Save the Rainforest”, “End Animal Cruelty” and most importantly “Bird Watching Rules.” I realized I might have a chance here…

“Poor baby,” she cooed, “Did you fall out of the nest? Did you hurt yourself?”

Lights clicked on in my head —you can’t believe everything you hear about birdbrains. I began to hop stiffly. I let one of my wings hang limply and bent at my side as if it were broken.

“They did hurt you!” she wailed. She rummaged through her eco-friendly, reusable, shopping bags I was half expecting to read, “My other grocery store is a local, organic farmer’s market,” and fished out a jar of sunflower seeds. She poured out a little in the palm of her hand and held it out to me. I wobbled lazily into her hand and started pecking at the seeds. She giggled at the ticklish feeling of my beak against her skin. “Wow, aren’t you beautiful…” she breathed in my face with wonder.

After I had had my fill, she cupped me protectively in her hands and shouted at the workers cleaning the signs again, “Hey! What are you doing up there? You’re destroying bird nests!”

“Don’t look at us; we do what our boss tells us…” the guy driving the truck shrugged at her, “And the boss said we needed to get rid of the pestilence here.”

“Stop at once! These birds are a very rare native species that has grown increasingly endangered in recent years. You are defiling their government protected habitat!”

“Says who?”

“Says an agent of the Environmental Protection Agency!” she stuck her chin out at him. “Now can you get me the number of your almighty boss?”

I don’t know about our family being a “very rare native species,” but it was nice she thought so. I think anything that isn’t a human on this planet is a very rare species. I let her continue, after all, I don’t think our home is any more or less valuable than another bird’s home, or a human’s home. And that was it. My chance encounter with the bird watcher and nature enthusiast ended up rescuing us from peril. She heroically whipped out her cell phone and began to make calls, giving our health inspector quite a talking too in the shame-on-you voice I know much too well from Mama. By the end of the day, the truck was cleared out, the Jewel freed from the pestilence decree of the health inspector, and our home declared a nationally protected wildlife refuge. Mama, Papa and Robin were so pleased to hear the news when they returned. We wouldn’t need to move at all, moreover, our nest was safety assured and soon the Lightwings would get new neighbors. All the birds in the city want to take advantage of the new refuge now. Yes, I think the “O” in Osco is going to be the perfect bird home, not just for us but also for our own chicks in many years to come.

How to Self Publish Old Style

In our modern world of computers, I am aware that self-publishing has become increasingly easier through e-books and the internet. But there’s something very attractive about paper and ink, something you can flip through, smell and even cut your fingertips on that zillions of zeroes and ones can’t replicate. Even when it comes to editing, I find paper makes finding mistakes easier. And if you are of the same mindset as me read on.

There is always self-publishing the old fashion way, by this I mean printing, folding and binding a book on your own. I get a very special satisfaction out of doing this and here I’ll show you how to print, fold and sew your own book…

I don’t want this method to be an alternative to “real” publishing, but I find it very useful for personal copies and rough drafts of my own writing. But if you are still a closet poet yet to create any larger work, or just someone who likes reconnecting with their inner kindergartener by cutting and pasting, you can still use these instructions to make a blank book.

I would like to thank the people who taught me some of the skills I’ll be demonstrating here. I don’t want to mention names without their permission, but if you ever read this post, guys, you know who you are.

Coptic Bound Book: (Blank)

Need:

·         Paper for Pages: (as much as desired) 8.5 x 11 or ledger size folded in half are good. You can make as many signatures as you like of twelve folded sheets of paper. Acid free paper is optimal.

·         Paper for Cover: you have the freedom to do just about anything here. I’ve done it with three sheets of fancy paper for the front cover and three for the back (if you do this at least one of the three sheets should be pretty sturdy). Or, if your book is just a quick printed rough draft you can choose to skip the cover, just treat the first and last signatures like the covers in the instructions. The width of your cover pages should be the width of your signatures plus an inch. Acid free paper is optimal.

·         Embroidery Thread :(acid free optimal but not necessary)

·         Sewing Needle: should not be too flimsy (it will break) or to fat (it won’t fit through your holes). They make special book binding needles but you can get away with a regular needle as long is the eye is big enough for the thread.

·         Awl: This is a tool for poking holes in the paper. They are made with different thicknesses. Use your best judgment for what thickness will work best with your paper and project. I believe you can find them at any craft store.

·         Ruler: accuracy is everything. I highly suggest using a metal ruler that starts zero at the very tip instead of a quarter inch down the ruler.

·         Bone Folder: used for folding paper quickly and neatly. If you can’t find one, I think any flat, wooden stick would do.

·         Piece of Beeswax: (such as a candle)

To fold paper:

Fold you paper in half one by one in groups of twelve (this will be a signature). Match corners of the paper, use bones folder to crease paper fold in the center and fold working from the center out. This will make the folds more accurate.

Paper Grain: paper has a grain just like fabric and idealy the paper grain should run parallel to the spine. You can determine the direction of the grain by "bouncing" the paper (bending it in your hands) you will feel more resistence in one direction (against the grain) than in the direction of the grain. It will also be harder to fold cleanly against the grain. It may be too difficult or wasteful to pay attention to paper grain in your book, but at least you'll sound smart.

To punch holes:

The measurements depend on the size of your paper but here are the measurements for 8.5 x 11 and ledger paper.

Take one signature and make sure it is stacked neatly and cleanly. Open to center page. Measure the center point of the page (8.5 x 11 = 4.25 inches, ledger = 5.5 inches). Measure out from each side of the center point (8.5 x 11 = 0.75 inches, ledger = 1 inch). From each of these two points, measure (8.5 x 11 = 1.75 inches, ledger = 1.5 inches). From these points measure an additional (8.5 x 11 = 0.75 inches, ledger 1 inch). You can choose your own measurements if you want just make sure that your stick to them. Once you’re certain your measurements are accurate, punch holes through your marks with the awl, all the way through the signature. Make sure the holes go through the crease in the paper. Repeat process with each signature.

Make sure all the holes of your signatures line up straight. They may line up one way more than another, in that case, make a light pencil mark on the top corner of all your signatures so you know which way is up/down/front/back. If your hole are accurate enough then it’s not necessary.

To sew:

Measure the length of the height of you paper. Multiply this by the number of signatures and covers going into the book plus two extra. This is the thread length you need. It probably will be really long and might be a bit hard to manage, but just watch out for tangles.

Run the thread across the beeswax a few times before you thread the needle.

Below are instructions for sewing. Sorry the drawings are a bit shabby.

 

Printing your book to be bound using Microsoft Word and Microsoft Publisher sorry Apple people

This is for a Coptic bound book with 8.5 x 11 papers. You will need a printer that has “duplex” (can print on both sides). Sorry, I’m sure there is a way to print it without the duplex, by double siding pages by hand, but it would be INCREDIBLY tedious. I highly recommend this printer investment; it saves trees too. 

Open a new publication. It should give you many options like advertisements, business cards, invitations, etc. Go to “Blank Pages”. Scroll down to “Booklets” Select and double click “½ Letter Booklet 5.5 x 8.5”. A new window should open with a 5.5 x 8.5 page. Click on the “change page size” option (should be on the sidebar). Change the margins to 0.5 inches all around.

Meanwhile, open a Microsoft Word document with your entire manuscript text on it. Select All. This is a good time to change the font size, line spacing, tabs/paragraph indentations. For my 78,000 page novel, I used Times New Roman font, 10 pt. (twelve looked too big), double spaced, 0.5 inch paragraph indentations. Copy.

Return to your publication. Go to the “Edit” tab, under it, click “Paste Special.” A new window should pop up with options. Select the “New Text Box” option before clicking “Ok.” If your manuscript is long, it may take awhile for the program to copy it. It may even say, “not responding” but just wait until it’s done. It will ask about auto flow and adding pages but just click “yes.”

* Note: the text boxes it makes will fill out to the page margins always except for the first page. You will need to go back and enlarge it later.

 My 78,000 word novel created 305 “pages”. Take this number and divide it by four (because there are four pages per sheet of paper). This will be an approximate number of the total sheets of paper needed. Mine was 76.25 (77). Knowing that each signature should be about twelve sheets of paper, 72.25 divided by 12 gives 6.35… you will need about seven signatures (always round up), so each signature will contain one seventh of the 305 pages (about 43.5 pages). You will probably need to change to number of sheets of paper per signature by a little more or less to fit just right. Your number of pages in Microsoft publisher should be a number divisible by four. (40 pages means ten sheets per signature, 44 pages means eleven sheets per signature). I used 40. This is so that there are no blank pages in the middle of the book. You will probably have a couple blank pages at the end. In fact, because of this method your last signature might be a little longer or shorter than the others, but that’s fine.

Open a new publication and format it the same as before ( ½ Letter 5.5x8.5 booklet with 0.5 inch margins). You may want to name it “signature #1”. Go to your manuscript in Microsoft Word. Take your number of pages in Microsoft Word and divide it by your approximate number of signatures. Go to this page number and select all the text up to this point. Copy and Paste Special (New textbox) in publication “signature #1”. It should give you the number of pages you expected. You may need to tweak it a bit, adding some, deleting some until you have perfectly 40 (10 sheets), 44(11 sheets), or 48 (12sheets) pages (just make sure it’s divisible by four). Keep track of where your first signature will end. It may be in the middle of a sentence. I suggest writing it down.

* Note: I have not been able to work the Microsoft publisher page numbering system to my satisfaction (can’t figure out how to change the starting number). If you can figure it out, great, if not, do it manually or keep close track of your page numbers.

Go to print preview. You will know you’ve done it right if the last page of the signature is on the same side and sheet of paper as your first page, with your last page on the left and your first page on the right. Go to “print” (not “quick print”) and under printer properties, select your “duplex” option and the “flip on left edge” option. Print.

Immediately mark your first signature with a post it note labeling the numbers of pages, signature number and the last sentence.

Repeat process with all other signatures, remembering to start exactly where the last signature stopped in Microsoft Word.

Bind according to the blank Coptic binding instructions.

The Social Life

It’s how to get in the new

To have more friends than your friends do

To politely reject an outing with an “Oh, I have plans.”

Because weekends are worthless unless the bands

At the parties don’t damage your ears

And the smoke and the drinks don’t haze over the clear.

As long as that’s what they think

When your Saturday night’s at home, thumbs in ink,

Hunched over homework from Geometry.

In straightjackets, we think we are free

To make simple choices:

Friend or unfriend people with only computer voices.

Post a photo and think they’ll send a prayer

When you’re hurt and aching; who cares?

So many definitions brought to our lives

To think how we ever survived

With faces, and laughter, and eyes meeting eyes,

Private corners, whispered secrets and less lies,

When it wasted just so much time

You could’ve been watching your number of contacts climb.

Scandals are fine if they remember your name.

And pushing and shoving is all part of the game.

The social life:    

The fear of having not enough friends,

The greater fear of admitting it.

Taste This! A Getting Back at My Jewish Roots Meal

The other day I had the enormous pleasure and privilege, not only to eat our family friend Abby Love’s famous matzoh ball soup, but to learn how to make it as well. Now I’m passing on this knowledge to you…

These matzoh balls are perfectly fluffy and tender. The flavor is delicate but scrumptious. They are homey and comforting, just the thing for flu season (which, by the way, is responsible for the long gap in my blog posts). My mother claims these matzoh balls are the closest she’s ever had to her Nani’s (which is some very high praise). I’ll give fair warning, this is not a recipe for dieters; this is authentic Jewish penicillin and is loaded with schmaltz. (There really is no other way around it, chicken fat is necessary if you want matzo balls instead of rubber bouncy balls).

To express just how delicious these matzo balls are, here is a poem I wrote in English freshman year inspired by them. I believe the assignment was to write a poem in which the sounds of the words were important to conveying the meaning of the poem…  

    

Salty, schmaltzy matzo balls,

Burbling and bouncing in broth.

You can't have too much

Of those fluffy puffs,

Slipping and sloshing in chicken stock.

We'd come home to cheek smacks,

"Schmutzig child - fingers out of the pot!"

After all, what could be better

Than a cup of scrumptiousness?

Ah! How cozy it would be

To sit, playing checkers

And slurp cheerfully

On scalding soup.

So if that got your mouthwatering, here is the prized recipe…

4 eggs beaten lightly

1 tsp salt

¼ tsp pepper

½ c. water

⅓ c. schmaltz melted

1 c. matzoh meal

Rendering the Schmaltz

 Schmaltz is chicken fat and this part of the process will require earlier preparation. The chicken fat must be rendered by taking the skin/fat of the chicken and cooking it with onions until the skin becomes crispy. Leave behind the onions and skin. Strain the fat and store in fridge or freezer until needed.  Apparently, one can get about ⅓ cup chicken fat from one chicken.

Making the Batter

1.      Mix together all ingredients and chill in refrigerator four one hour. The chilling is key to making the runny mixture doughy enough to shape into balls. You can use the freezer to speed up the process. Just be sure it is chilled thoroughly, otherwise they will fall apart. In fact, if you plan to make very large matzo balls you may want to chill them again after you have shaped them.

2.      Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. (Some people are fancy and like to cook the matzoh balls in chicken broth but the matzoh balls soak up so much water in the end you’ll waste a lot of broth. Using gently boiling, as salty as the sea, water will work best.)

3.      Wet your hands and form into balls, careful not to smash them or handle them too much. You should have sixteen balls the size of small chicken eggs. (They will expand)

4.      Drop the matzo balls into the gently boiling water, stirring them so they don’t stick to the bottom and they rise to the surface.

5.      Cover and cook for twenty-five minutes. If they are dark in the center they’re not done yet.

6.      Meanwhile, have the broth warming. Serve in hot chicken broth (suggestion: add a little fresh dill (a very nice touch) and one package of instant boullion). Putting hot matzoh balls in cold broth will make it cloudy.

Broth Tips

The broth should be made by boiling the chicken carcass for a good period and straining the liquid. Adding a bit of vinegar or limejuice during the bone boiling process will help break down the calcium in the bones and make the broth healthier. A darker, richer color can be obtained by boiling dry onionskins with the carcass (but remember to remove them). If you want to look really professional and fancy, clarify the broth by dropping egg whites in at the end of the process. The egg white will attract the impurities. Then remove.

If you’re still in the mood for more traditional Jewish cooking, I highly suggest you try this recipe for rugelach (type of rolled cookie) I found on epicurious. http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Rugelach-109475 I discovered that a chocolate chip and raspberry jam filling is particularly yummy. I have also discovered that with rolled cookies such as these, there is a tendency for the outside to become unpleasantly floury from all the rolling and shaping. I like to use confectioner’s sugar instead of flour for rolling; it seems to keep the dough from sticking well enough without compromising the taste.

Taste This! Mmm... Mushrooms

I have a challenge for Google/Apple/Microsoft etc. Someone should build a computer device, like a speaker, that can transmit smells. Or technically the smells would be recreated in the little speaker, according to the information given to it, in a tiny chemistry lab inside, so that with one press of a button you could get a puff of these mushrooms’ mouthwatering scent. For now just pretend or make this incredibly delicious and painless mushroom dish yourself.

This recipe was my grandmothers. I have no idea how she came up with it. It’s quick, easy and simple.

1 lb “baby bell” or portabella mushrooms.

3 green onions chopped

Sliced water chestnuts

1/8 cup soy sauce

3 tbsp butter

Slice mushrooms. You make this dish with whole mushrooms but I think the flavors of the mushrooms mingle with the other flavors better if they’re sliced.

Sauté mushrooms in skillet with a generous portion of butter. Drain water chestnuts and add. Cook until mushrooms are brown all over and have shrunk significantly. Splash in a bit of soy sauce. At the very end, add green onions. Serves four (or only one if you’re all alone).        

Read This! The House of Silk: a Sherlock Holmes Novel by Anthony Horowitz

Those familiar with both Sherlock Holmes and Anthony Horowitz may have mixed feelings about this pairing. To clarify, “The Arthur Conan Doyle Estate chose the celebrated #1 New York Times bestselling author Anthony Horowitz to write the House of Silk because of his proven ability to tell a transfixing story and for his passion for all things Holmes,” according to the jacket flap. I admit I was a bit dubious about it ‒ though I’m honestly not very well acquainted with the Arthur Conan Doyle books ‒ but I am familiar with Anthony Horowitz’s writing. Yes, I’m a bit of a sucker for Alex Rider, even though they’re obviously every-little-boy’s-dream-come-true on paper, with plenty of Hollywood action, bad guys blowing up, itty-bitty bikinis and detailed descriptions of what’s under the hood of every car mentioned.

If you’re a fan of that sort of writing, The House of Silk might be a nice introduction to a very different yet very alike type of storytelling. If you’re not a fan, don’t worry, Horowitz proves he can write for grown ups with more selective tastes too. Would you recognize the first sentence? (I suggest reading it to yourself in a posh British accent for the full effect.)

I have often reflected upon the strange series of circumstances that led me to my long association with one of the most singular and remarkable figures of my age.

The House of Silk promises to stay true to the legendary characters and to entertain the reader with a riveting plot and mostly importantly, a very clever mystery. However, I would say that while a page-turner the plot feels a little modern, but I think it’s only a minor, human flaw.

Horowitz’s other books feel to me like a potato chips, salty, greasy goodness that you seem to finish all too quickly. And to quote Jay’s brand “Can’t… stop… eating… em’!” But if those books are like potato chips, the House of Silk is like those fancy vegetable chips, a snack that’ll make you feel less guilty and like you’re getting a least some nutrition out of it while only adding to the flavor.

Don’t miss this book!

Read This! We All Fall Down by Robert Cormier

To be honest this book review will encompass a little more of Cormier’s works than just We All Fall Down. His books are truly fantastic examples of great YA literature. They are some of the most powerful books I’ve ever read, short and simple yet raw and suspenseful, very often disturbing too. Although these are older books and are a bit dated, they are still worth the trouble of finding and reading.

In We All Fall Down, a group of kids breaks into and wrecks the Jerome family house in a most revolting manner, just for kicks. Then Karen Jerome comes home to the mess. Some of the boys assault her and push her down the cellar stairs. The fall leaves her in a coma. A mysterious person, who refers to himself only as “The Avenger”, witnesses the whole incident and vows vengeance on the trashers… Meanwhile, Buddy Walker is going through a difficult time at home, his parents in the middle of an unhappy divorce, so he turns to drink and befriending some nasty people. He regrettably was involved in the trashing of the Jerome house, and feels miserable about it. But matters only get more complicated when Buddy falls in love with Jane, Karen’s older sister...

Half the excitement of this book is in trying to solve the mystery of the Avenger as his identity is slowly revealed with was a shocking surprise. Frankly, many books by Robert Cormier are not for the faint of heart or stomach, We All Fall Down is no different. His novel Tenderness was too disturbing for my taste, and the Chocolate War was very good but strong enough to put me off football for life. The Rag and Bone Shop, brief, simple and yet chillingly provocative, is also worth looking at. Sometimes, as in the fraught with intrigue After the First Death, the situation feels a little unlikely, but if one can thoroughly place themselves in the story, in the shoes of the characters, feel what they’re feeling and just experience the powerful writing, it doesn’t matter. Don't expect these books to make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside; their merit is elsewhere, in their ability to shake you, to challenge your way of thinking. I wish I saw more YA books following this path, and I don’t mean by being suspenseful and disturbing, but by being less focused on a particular audience, like boys or girls, and less worried about pleasing the reader or selling books, purely concentrated on the story and the writing.

I'd especially recommend We All Fall Down to fans of William Golding’s The Lord of the Flies or fans of books by Jerry Spinelli. But I think it’s a nice change of pace for anyone looking for a different kind of read.

 

The Express Train Short Story

This is an experimental short story still in the works...

“She left me,” Nick moaned and leaned against her shoulder, “Annie left me for a maple leaf man in Toronto.”

Kathy wrinkled her nose and tried to shake Nick off her jacket. He reeked of every drop of tequila he had dowsed himself with that evening ‒ and not all of them had reached his mouth. At first, she thought it was normal; he had just gone through a bad break up and she should give him the time to brood, to tell her his sorrowful tale and to flush it out of his system… but he just kept going. Their friends had fled the scene when the tears started, but Kathy stayed. She listened to him, passed him the Kleenex and kept watch in case he got into trouble. Kathy would have urged him to go home, but by that time, it was unsafe to leave him alone for any amount of time.

“I’ll call you a cab,” said Kathy, but as she fumbled through her purse for her phone, she noticed her wallet was missing. Crap. Yes, this was turning out to be a very bad night. She did find a crumpled, gone-through-several-washes five in her jacket pocket, just enough for two train tickets home. Somehow, Kathy led the wobbly Nick on a straight path to the train station and dragged him onto the platform.

“How’ll I ever compare to a yoga instructor?” Nick sobbed and pinched a bit of belly fat, “She want bacon? I’ve got a lot of bacon. But nooo she wants the round kind. Kathy, help me. Help me win her back, Kathy.”

“Keep it down will you?” Kathy hissed through gritted teeth and yanked him by the wrist, “People are looking at us and moving out of our way like we’re lepers or something. Hey,” Kathy called to man in a navy blue uniform, “excuse me, do you know when the next train to Lakewood comes?”

The attendant checked his watch. “Ten minutes ma’am.”

Kathy sighed with relief, so they hadn’t missed the last train of the night. They stopped running at about two o’clock.

“Ok Nick, why don’t we just sit down here awhile?” Kathy spun around. Where was the moaning… the arm tugging… the smell?

“Nick?”

He was gone. Evaporated. He had disappeared even faster than the beer bottles at the bar. Then she saw the dazed Nick follow a sparkly, scantily clad blonde onto the wrong train, a southbound to the Whitepine District. Kathy ran across the platform and screamed at him.

“Nick! Nick! What the hell are you doing? Get off that train!”

But Nick never listened to her. Even when they were kids living on the same block, he never listened to her. She had to bonk him on the head and lure him with a chocolate bar to get his attention ever. The doors of the cars clicked shut all at once. The wheels began to turn and the train darted out of the station.

Kathy thought she could feel her blood freeze over as she stood their alone on the platform. She shut her eyes and cursed under her breath a bit. Once she had regained some of her composure she flipped out her phone and called Nick right away. “Ok, Nick. You got onto the wrong train without me. I’ll get on the next train. I want you to get off at Greenfield station, all right? And then wait for me there.”

Luckily, another southbound Whitepine train was right at the tail of Nick’s, and Kathy boarded it immediately.

The train was a bit rusty and graffiti marked. The seats smelled like pee and waning florescent lights blinked erratically overhead. Whitepine was a shady area, a homicide every other night on the news, not to mention all the other underground crime. The state of the clunky train and the dismal sights of rundown factories outside reminded Kathy why she had never familiarized herself with the area. She was alone in the car but she wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. Nevertheless, she clasped her purse tightly to her body.

With a sigh, Kathy chose a reasonably clean seat and let herself unwind a little, thankful for the quiet. What a bad night indeed! She should have been home by now in her cozy little apartment, sleeping like a baby, having a quiet evening. Of course, that was never the case with Sandra. She didn’t even remember why she had gone to Sandra’s to begin with. She only remembered what came after…, the, oh, you can’t go out wearing those shoes with that outfit, routine, then forced into borrowing garish heels… the slip on the ice… the heel snapping, ankle twisting unnaturally… Sandra would never forgive her. Of course, Kathy had to support Nick on her bad ankle anyway. It had been sort of like a three-legged race…  

Kathy eased her foot out of the broken heel. For lack of ice, she pressed her foot against the cool metal of the wall of the train car. She glanced at the clock on her phone. She prayed Nick would have enough control over his faculties to follow her instructions and wait for her at Greenfield station. Then, by some miracle, maybe they could catch the last train to Lakewood. Otherwise… well she didn’t like thinking about that. Thinking about her wallet and about how her phone was still in her possession, she cheered up at the thought that it might not be stolen and perhaps she left it at Sandra’s. She called Sandra to inquire, but there was no answer.

“Got any gum?”

Kathy jumped up with a startle. She dropped her phone ‒ luckily on the seat.

There was a dark, gray bundle of a man sitting in the corner of the car, dusty, knitted skullcap to holey socks. Sandra didn’t know how she overlooked him. He seemed to camouflage with the seats.

“Got any gum?” His words were molded and shaped tenderly in his mouth, as if his lips were swollen. “Chewing gum?”

Kathy blinked a few times and handed the chameleon man a stick of gum. Her phone immediately began to buzz, echoing the action of her trembling hands.

“H‒hello?” she said shakily.

It was Nick. “Kathy. The train’s not stopping.”

“What do you mean it’s not stopping?”

Nick didn’t have to answer. Kathy could hear the PA over the phone, Due to construction; this train will run express to Whitepine. Repeat.

Kathy wanted to kick something. It would not stop at Greenfield. Think about getting home later. Focus on finding Nick and making sure he’s safe. She told herself. She could see her train was passing a station now as well, a mess of plywood and left out tools in the orange light of a few high-pressure sodium street lamps. The same message came over her train loud speaker.

“Kathy, what are we doing?”

“Hang on, Nick, we’ll meet at Whitepine.”

“Kathy, I’m awful scared now… We’re going really fast.”

“Calm down. It’s the drink talking.” Kathy gripped the seat armrest.

Nick sniffled, “I’m never gonna’ see her again… Kath. I just know it.”

“Sure you will.”

“I love ya’ Kath, know that?”

“Nick, you’re not using your head.”

“I love ya’‒”

A crackle and a snap. Kathy heard the line cut. She swallowed and shook her head. Why was she acting so jittery? This was bad luck, nothing sinister at all. Yet she couldn’t help control the stickiness of her hands or the fear in her pulse.

The chameleon man just stared at her as she put her phone in her pocket. She looked out the window, not wanting to meet his bloodshot eyes. Indeed the train did begin to speed up. They were moving farther and farther out of the city. The streetlights were growing fewer and farther between, and the skyline sparser. The wheels squeaked likes nails on slate as the brakes were applied. Kathy nearly rolled off her seat as the train ground to a halt. There was a whistle as the pressure on the brakes was released. They were stopped. The doors jerked open. Kathy didn’t know how they could have come to the Whitepine station already. The lights in the car flickered on and off. Then Kathy could feel the vibrations of the motor cut. The train engine was dead. The door shut and opened again.

“Welcome to Whitepine. Your train terminates here. Please exit,” was the audio-recorded message on the loudspeaker.

The hiding man shrugged into his worn old jacket and left the train. Kathy listened. She did not hear his footsteps off the metal-ridged floor, no rhythmic thuds of rubber soles on wood platform, nor gravel crunching beneath the man’s weight. No sound to suggest a living being was near at all. The stationary train held its pose. Kathy at last edged toward the open door and looked out. It was mostly dark, only the headlights of the train permeating the mystery of night. She could see no platform; it had been torn down. The shack of a train station was across three other tracks, also dark and under construction… and no chameleon man. Kathy swallowed hard, her breath coming fast. This was a nightmare, wasn’t it? People just didn’t disappear. She had imagined him. And trains didn’t just stop in the middle of nowhere. She just wanted to get out.

The cold winter wind blew in through the door, rustling through her hair, shaking the automatic doors. Kathy dared to peek out one last time, seeing nothing in the darkness but tracks, pebbles and construction debris.

The train jolted forward so quickly Kathy was caught by surprise and fell backward, her head knocking into the handle bar by the doors…

When Kathy next opened her eyes, she saw the horizon at a tilt, her head against the cold floor of the train, the non-slip ridges making a pink impression on her cheek. She slowly righted herself. The train was moving slowly now, but they weren’t in the station. They were entering the train yard. Old, rundown and retired cars rusted on the tracks. The train slithered into its spot amongst the others like an aluminum worm. Kathy couldn’t hear or see a conductor or driver but she assumed they were there. She straightened up and tried not to panic. She hit the big yellow emergency call button on the side of the train, to tell the conductor she was still aboard, but there was no answer, not even an alarm. She hit it repeatedly, scared, frustrated and panicking. She kicked the button a couple times, knowing it was useless but too desperate to admit defeat. She sank to her knees, alone in the dark. The train at last skidded to its resting place and shut down. The usually crowded and vigorous machine was dead and silent with a single switch.

Nick, Kathy said to herself, wiping a tear of exasperation off her cheek with her sleeve. It left a streak of black mascara on her purple shirt. I have to find Nick. He could be in more trouble than I am. He probably doesn’t even remember what happened. With that thought the starkest in mind, so strong it blotted out most of her fear and hopelessness, she calmed herself and stood up. There were at least twenty text messages from Nick on her phone. Where are you, Kathy? I don’t know where I am. They forgot about me… Never reached the station… Feels like I’m in a Hitchcock movie. I fell asleep, Kathy, but they forgot about me. Kathy, this train keeps rolling backward and I can’t find the conductor. Everybody’s gone. It gives me the creeps. Kathy, promise never to let me get drunk again. Kathy, won’t you pick up? Kathy, don’t leave me like she did. Kathy! I can’t see anything. Get me out of here!  

These messages only stirred Kathy into further action. She would find him and be strong for him, because that was what she always did. Even when their friends scowled at her for wiping the drool off Nick’s worthless, drunkard face, for being his crutch, she went on. Because a friend in trouble isn’t worth your trouble too, they’d say. No, because a friend in trouble now might just help her out of trouble someday… and oh how she wanted some help right now! Kathy tried to call Nick on the last trickles of juice left in her phone. He didn’t pick up nor was the call redirected to voicemail. It just kept ringing. Kathy shook her head. It was so quiet she thought she could hear the echoes of his ring tone, In the Jungle. It almost made her laugh, so classic, so silly. So Nick… Kathy got the crazy idea of following the music to find Nick. He had probably just passed out on the train, in such a heavy sleep he couldn’t hear his phone.

Kathy dug her fingernails into the rubber weather-stripping around the doors of the train car, managing just enough grip to wrench the doors apart. It was a big jump from the doors to the ground, but it wasn’t too bad. Her ankle smarted and protested as she landed on her toes. She had almost forgotten about it… Kathy hobbled unsteadily through the maze of cars, arms crossed protectively over her chest against the cold wind blowing through the cars like in a wind tunnel. As she reached a break in a line, Kathy almost spooked herself thinking the arrangement of the windows and doors on the end of a car looked like a screaming head. She followed the song like were a shining light, a beacon of happiness. She followed it onto the train in front of hers. She ran through the cars. She knew Nick had been there. It wasn’t until she saw the fingerprints on the dirty glass that she confirmed it. On one window she passed, a picture of a heart with ‘Nick and Annie forever’ written in it was scrawled in the film of grime.

Alfred Hitchcock indeed, she sighed. “The Lady Vanishes”… Nick vanished… but the lady came back and everyone was all right. A happy ending. Oh, please end like the movies! Let this end like the Wizard of Oz, home in a warm bed, all adventures naught but dreams. She had to keep her hopes up. He wasn’t far. He was here… somewhere. This was the last car on the train, though. Kathy didn’t know where else Nick could have gone. She opened the back emergency door by butting it in with her shoulder. She misjudged her strength and fell out of the car, landing sprawled on the tracks. She looked up at the sky, able to see it for the first time all night. It was growing lighter, blue, violet and gray. The setting moon was low in the sky, big and orange. Kathy winced at the grit in her scraped knees and palms. Now she had really done it; her sprained ankle was too twisted and too sore to budge. She’d have to crawl her way out of there. Once she was done inspecting her injuries, she noticed the music had stopped playing; Nick’s phone was no longer ringing. Right beneath her lay the plastic pieces of Nick’s phone. But where had he gone? Then she saw the gray hoodie caught beneath the train’s wheels, newly dyed red stripes now visible on it from the rising sun.

Kathy blanched, bile rising to her mouth, but as she turned away from the gore to the open track in front of her, the wide dust colored sky… she saw two, round, yellow headlights staring straight at her. The eyes on the screaming head come to life… those deranged evil eyes. And they were getting bigger and bigger, hurling closer and closer. And she heard another sound too beneath the rocking of the train, getting louder and louder as the shadow engulfed her.

“Welcome to Whitepine. Your train terminates here. Please Exit.”