I made borsht

Never Done: I made borsht

I never liked borsht. I tried it hot, I tried it cold. I tried it home made, I tried it bottled. I tried it with sour cream, and without. I didn't like borsht. Then Sally, who is a spectacular cook, made it for dinner when I was in Portland, and I loved it. Loved it like it I wished I had a bigger appetite, so I could have had seconds. Loved it like I asked for the recipe. Which she gave me. Which I quadrupled. Which I made for Brooklyn Soup Swap. Which took forever. Which came out great. Which looks gorgeous in the glass jars. Which I served at a potluck with fellow swappers Mich, Abigail, and Melissa, and with guest slurpers Josh and Jane, who I've just met for the first time, who designs toys, and has an Etsy store called Hazel Village, and who brought a gaze of empty raccoon kits she had sewn, and stuffed them after dinner while I sewed some more flaxseed lavender bags. (Yes, I just wrote "a gaze of empty raccoon kits" -- a phrase for which I had to look up not one but two words. A group of raccoons is called either a nursery or a gaze, and baby raccoons are kits.) But this is about borsht.

Here's how I made it. I cleaned 16 beets, and rubbed them with oil, and put them into a roasting pan and baked them at 350 for what was supposed to be an hour. Only I left them in for 2 hours, because they were not at all soft after 1 hour. In a big soup pot, I melted two sticks of butter over high heat, and sautéed 8 diced onions until soft, and then added 20 cloves of diced garlic, 6 sliced carrots, and four sliced parsnips. I lowered the heat, and let those vegetables get soft. Then I added two 15 oz boxes of chopped tomatoes, 16 cups of vegetable broth, 8 tablespoons of honey, and I was supposed to add 8 bay leaves, 4 teaspoons of dry oregano, and 4 teaspoons of dry basil. Only I didn't have any bay leaf or basil, so I used 8 teaspoons of herbes de Provence instead, which means there was some rosemary in there too, and some thyme, and probably some savory as well. I brought all that to a boil, and then let it simmer while I peeled the cooled beets, and julienned them. Which is the part that took forever, and was also the most satisfying part -- knowing how well these little strips of beets would fit onto a spoon, and knowing how tender they would become. Then I added the beets to the soup, and was supposed to simmer it for 30 minutes, but mine needed about an hour to get the beets soft. Then I added a lot of salt, and waited for it to cool down enough to spoon into Ball Mason jars.

It came out great. As good as Sally's even, which is something of a full circle, because it was Sally's mother Lily who taught me how to make matse balls almost 20 years ago. Lily is a wonderful cook and seamstress from Japan, where she learned to make matse ball soup in her post-graduate home ec studies. It always delighted us both that my very authentic and fluffy matse balls are courtesy of the Japanese educational system. And now Sally's gone and taught me how to make borsht. What's next? Will Mayumi (Sally's daughter, who is also a good young cook who made lychee sorbet by simply blending lychees and ice) teach me how to make kreplakh, which I tried to make once, and which came out like with meat wrapped in in glue? (If she is going to, she's going to have to do it soon, because Mich and Abigail and I talked about having a kreplakh party, and I bet between us, we will unlock the secrets of the Jewish dumpling.) Or pickle my own herring?

But I think it's different. I don't think there's a trick to making borsht, the way there's a trick to getting matse balls light and fluffy, or ungummy kreplakh. I think my rite of passage isn't so much that I made borsht, but that I liked it. That I can hold my head up high now, proud and Jewy, and ask for seconds of the sweet red soup of the Slavs.

When you have made a decision, act without hesitating

Never Done: Finished the first round of adoption paperwork
Never Done: Bananamenore
Tshuve: Brooklyn Soup Swap

It makes sense, but I find it harder to do something I've never done on work days than on the weekend. This coming weekend, for example, I have things lined up for both days (seeing the Youth Pride Chorus, and hosting a craft gathering at my apartment.) Technically, I do things every work day that I've never done, but I don't think they're always worthy of counting, or of writing about, so by the end of the day I often find myself torn between trying to justify writing about something mundane and getting the inspiration (and time) to do something worthy of the Never Done project.

Those are the days with the long lists.

Mich made gorgeous red and white lentil soup this week for Brooklyn Soup Swap. Full of vegetables -- a little rice, cumin, turmeric, lime. I came home and ate it for dinner, which is, technically, something I have never done. When we were hanging out at Mich's apartment, we realized we need to blog and brand the Soup Swap, along with the team T-shirts that we decided to make on the inaugural night. So we have some soup support projects to do.

As Josh and I were sitting down for dinner, I wanted to light a menore, and wanted it to be one I've never made before. I saw the bunch of bananas on the counter, and was inspired. It was the third night, and it was a banana bunch of four -- perfect for the three nights and the shamesh -- the attendant candle that lights the others. I loved the solidity and 3D depth of this menore -- the candles spread out in a semi-circle, but not in a straight line. But when they burned down, they didn't transform the banana bunch as wonderfully as the candles on a cheese menore do -- when they melt the top of the cheese and create oil -- the miracle of khanike! What I love about making these is the moment when I see new possibility in an object that I live with every day. (But I have to admit. I have an idea for a kitshy one made out of something I definitely do not have around the house.)

After dinner, Josh and I finished our first round of adoption paperwork -- the Application to Adopt and the FBI Criminal Background check, including 28 years' worth of street addresses. Mine get a little sketchy in the late 80s -- with approximate dates and locations. My life itself wasn't even sketchy any more in those days; I was out of college, and working in and around Waterville, Maine -- as a Family Planning counselor, the co-Director of a Rape Crisis center, at Railroad Square Cinema, and also at Railroad Square Cafe. (Remember the days when we got out of college and plenty of work?) But if you think I can remember my street addresses from back then....

This feels like or first milestone in the adoption process. We are going to submit this paperwork at MAPP class this weekend, and then we'll officially, bureaucratically be on our way. After they accept the paperwork we can ask people to write us references, and they can fingerprint us (woohoo!) and I think we can start meeting children.

This week's mide is decisiveness: when you have made a decision, act without hesitating. Thinking about the adoption process though the lens of decisiveness makes me realize that the main thing between not adopting a child and adopting a child is the decision to go ahead with it. It's been something I've thought about since I was a little girl, when my friend Claire and her three adopted siblings lived across the street from me. It's not, of course, that I would have adopted anyone at that age, but that I understood it was a real option for family-building. But I've been actively considering it for the past -- what? -- five years. And really, the difference between thinking about it and doing it was a decision to start the process -- and then, of course, ongoing decisions to continue the process. Handing in the paperwork today feels a little bit like jumping off an embankment into a cool beautiful lake: I know it will be amazing once I get in, but it's still scary and transgressive to take the leap.

I am seaweed

Never Done: Free Man of Color
Never Done: Called Apple to ask them to remove white nationalist iPhone App from iTunes
Tshuve: Time with Tabitha
Tshuve: Brooklyn Soup Swap

I feel like I haven't been writing many tshuve posts, even though I've been enjoying returning to some of the new routines I've recently started. At the end of a very full day, which included reading and marking up the contract for the screenplay option I am still working on (It took five hours to read and mark up this contract. Are any of you reader/friends entertainment lawyers who would like to answer a couple questions for me that my BA in Anthropology/Religion and my MFA in Dramatic Writing didn't prepare me for?); and having a phone meeting about my new international documentary film project, which I am doing with three wonderful people (I will ask them if it's OK to blog about it, and if they say yes, I will give details about it here); and calling Apple customer service to talk with them about why it's a bad idea for them to allow an iPhone/iPad/iPod app for the white nationalist group NumbersUSA .... at the end of that full day, I was hosting Soup Swap at my apartment, and an out-of-town guest for the weekend, and also spending just 20 minutes with Tabitha while her mom went to run an errand -- all while getting ready to go see John Guare's new play A Free Man of Color at Lincoln Center.

Also, it might be helpful for you to know that this week's mide (middah) is Equanimity: Rise above events that are inconsequential.

What I like about this mide is that it implies that there are events that are consequential -- and we just have to be able to figure out which ones they are.

When you are reading a legal contract that is written to represent the rights and responsibilities of two separate parties, the entire actual job is to determine what is, and what is not, consequential. That's why it took me 5 hours to sort through the document -- because it's not always easy to figure that out, even with a law degree. Is it OK if my name is not on the title card following the title card for the director? Maybe yes, maybe no. Is it OK to change the word hereto to herefor? I think it is. Is it OK to sign something that says we would have the first option to write the sequel as a work for hire, with no financial compensation. Um. No. The challenge for me though, is to be able to stay grounded while figuring these things out -- and not let anger, confusion, or frustration cloud my judgment, so I can keep figuring out what is consequential, and what is not. Rabbi Alissa Wise likes to think about a state of equanimity as being like seaweed. You're swept around by tides and currents and waves and storms, but you always stay rooted.

It was easy to stay grounded while talking with Apple Customer Service, because as soon as I explained who NumbersUSA is, and what white nationalism is, she found it to be deeply consequential. Interestingly, she took white nationalism seriously by comparing it to pornography, which is, apparently, the offensive material that most people call in to report.

Later, Tabitha and I were alone together for about 20 minutes, and she cried the entire time we were together. I assumed she was having a hard time understanding that her mom would be back because she hasn't yet developed object permanence, and so I just stayed close to her, and held her, and got down on the floor with her, and talked with her while she cried. I wasn't very thrown by it -- she would check me out every now and then and come crawling on top of me to get a hug, and then recommit herself to crying. So I knew she knew she was OK with me, just really not happy about something. When her mom came back, she told me that this had been going on all day, but Tabitha did get more relaxed when her mom was holding her. Until she suddenly threw up -- a lot -- all over herself, her mom, and a very little bit on the 0% bedbug couch. And just then -- no, really, just then -- our out-of-town guest arrived, with an entire meal she wanted to cook, just then.

So I was getting rags to help clean up the throw-up, and clean clothes for everyone to wear, and plastic bags for the pukey clothes, and accepting a bottle of wine from our guest, and finding a roasting pan so she could make chicken, and answering text messages from Esther who was about an hour late with the 8 quarts of soup she made and was bringing over for people to pick up, and getting dressed to go out to the theater, and finding the tin foil, and answering the door, and ..... I was seaweed. I really was seaweed. I was able to see that there were no crises, and that there were enough adults to do whatever needed to be done, and that Tabitha was feeling better once she got cleaned up, and that it was totally fine that people were going to have a nice dinner in my apartment without me, and that I was going to Lincoln Center to see a play that had gotten horrible reviews.

And you know what? I liked it. First of all, I had insanely good seats. Third row center, to watch Jeffrey Wright and Mos Def. I have definitely never done that before. I would sit in the third row center to watch those two play Monopoly. But also, I liked the play. Mostly. I didn't like Guare's treatment of women in the play, and while that is not inconsequential, I can forgive him for it because he set out to write about the Louisiana Purchase, race and slavery -- and not sexism and the subjugation of women. I admired the ambition of this play -- a play about race in the United States, in New Orleans, in 1801, during a transition from a racially free and mixed society to and racially enslaved one. I thought the story telling was consistent, and I thought the direction was bold, theatrical, imaginative, and also consistent. I was never bored. I was spellbound by Mos's acting. And in an unpredictable reaction, I decided I want to wear bloomers, waistcoats, and high boots this winter, and that I might try to sew myself some. Maybe in a lovely knotted-kelp green with dulse-colored polka dots.

One in ten

Never Done: First gathering of the Brooklyn Soup Swap.

I made 8 quarts of Chestnut soup (I have also never made chestnut soup before) and then 6 people came over to each pick up a quart. (I just realized -- sorry to totally interrupt -- that I have not remembered to say a Shehekhianu since the walk over the Hudson. Oops.) The soup, anointed with clove, bay leave, nutmeg, and Madeira, turned out delicious, and even allowed me to try a new cooking technique: sweating the vegetables under a round of oiled parchment.

When it was done, the soup swappers came over in waves, each overlapping with at least one other person until the last two came and stayed, talking deeply, for a couple of hours. Which I loved. Is it too much of a cliché to write about how food brings people together? I guess I could started the Brooklyn Cigar Swap, and I could have sat together for hours talking about intergenerational dating, how to comfort a profoundly sad child, the best grass-fed burgers in Brooklyn, and the lighting in the movie the Social Network, and how it relates to language classes being held in the mornings and math classes in the afternoons -- while smoking hand-rolled cigars. But somehow I don't think it would have been the same. I think that the fact that I literally thought about everyone while I was cooking, and that everyone went home with a quart of cream of Chestnut soup, which they are going to heat up and eat over the next couple of days, actually nurtured the conversation, and is actually going to make us closer. I already feel closer, and profoundly appreciative for the deepening relationships. Not to mention the best joke I have heard in months:

What's the hardest thing about being gluten-free?

Telling your parents you're gay.

The end of nationalism

Never Done: Make a monthly accounting system. There are days when I question my decision to try to do a new thing every day. Those aren't the days when I've lined up something amazing that's been on my list for 5 years; nor are they the days when grace places a church medallion in my line of sight. Instead this happens when I am struggling with the question of what makes my life significant. I haven't always struggled with this question. For most of my life, I've been very clear about the ways my life, and my work are significant. It's a question that has dogged me since moving to New York City -- where I have felt more anonymous, and less effective, and less able to build community in the ways I'm used to. This has all started to shift for me in the past months. I feel more connected and more effective, and I can notice that I am more central in this Big City than I have ever felt before. This is both Never Done, and also Tshuve -- because I am starting to feel like Brooklyn is just a town, and Manhattan is just a town, and that I can do things here like I did in Portland, which when I moved there was a huge overwhelming city to me, and by a few years in, was one of my deepest homes. One of the reasons I am so excited about the Brooklyn Soup Swap, is that it's the kind of thing I would have easily done in Portland, and took me 8 years to initiate here. (It's going great, by the way. We have 8 households, and I will be making the first round of soup next Friday. I will write about it then.)

The question of significance has also dogged me since both my parents have now passed. As wonderful a global network of friends as I have (and I do have a beautiful global network of friends who are really good at reminding me of my significance) -- nothing has ever reminded me of my own significance like caring for my parents as they aged and died. Not that I haven't been super invested in a ton of political work that I've done, or performance or writing or film .... it's just that since they've gone, I have more days when I wonder what I'm doing here.

So when I come to the end of a day and my Never Done is that I set up a monthly accounting system, you can imagine that I might feel a little tiny in the world. But the thing is, I know that that little system is going to have some big reach. First of all, I'm hoping it will lessen dull conversations between me and my partner. We are both pretty great about taking care of our own lives, but we still, after 7 years, haven't figured out how to take care of our joint life. So this is actually a joint monthly accounting system. I took a little notebook (very pretty with a black and white photo of a spiral staircase, with iron work and ornamental plaster work) and we wrote down all our joint monthly expenses, and who pays which bills, and which ones are recurring, and which ones are variable. And we are going to sit down at the end of every month, and add all these numbers up, divide by two, and settle up our accounts. (It sounds so simple, right? Why did it take 7 years to start?) So I am hoping that we will have ONE dull conversation a month about this, and not 15 dull conversations sprinkled throughout the month. And that should lead to our having a lot more fun together, which will lead to my increased productivity, which will lead to my writing the screenplay about my father's secret career in pursuit of the end of nationalism, and that will end to the end of nationalism, and THEN I will be able to tell that my life is significant. And it all started with a monthly accounting system.