Homer Simpson would starve here

December 26, 2005 by · Leave a Comment
Filed under: Food, General, Holidays, Israeliness, Pop Culture 

The bakery just across from my apartment pulls out fresh trays of sufganiyot (filled-donuts) every couple of hours. Personally, I despise these doughy oil-fried holiday treats. But my Israeli compatriots can’t seem to get enough of them. During Channukah, that is.

While donuts (or, doughnuts) are a part of North American culture, Israelis will only eat donuts around Channukah time. It’s amazing really.

Bakeries will go all out for a couple of weeks before the eight-day holiday, knowing that when the eighth candle burns out so does their clientele. Estimates show that bakeries will produce some 250,000 sufganiyot each day, during Channukah.

The American chain Dunkin’ Donuts tried to break into the Israeli marketplace about six years ago. Alas, they went belly up when there was no demand for the doughy goodies. Similarly, travellers will find Israel void of Tim Hortons, Country Style, and Krispy Kreme.

The national newspapers annually send out food critics to rate the local bakeries’ sufganiyot . The basic sufganiya is filled with red jelly. This year, pastry chefs went wild and are offering fillings such as custard, caramel, alcohol-laced jellies, and nutty combinations.

A tip I learned from the local papers is that a fresh sufganiya boasts a white line around its girth. If the donut is wholly beige, the oil in which it was fried was unclean.

I grew up eating latkes (potato pancakes) as my oily Channukah treat. In Israel, however, sufganiyot are the typical delight.

Now that I’m an Israeli, I felt the need to partake in the sufganiya fest. I took a bite of a mini sufganiya – and that was more than enough.

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A surrealist Channukah

December 26, 2005 by · 1 Comment
Filed under: Food, General, Holidays 

It was a dark, cold and rainy night at a roadblock on the Green Line somewhere between Beersheva and Hebron. My body was warm due to the hermonit (basically a sleeping bag with legs, sleeves and a hood) but my feet were freezing due to the lack of insulation in IDF issued combat boots. It was the middle of the night and traffic at the roadblock was sparse. Maybe two cars every hour if even that. My mind was occupied (no pun intended) with my imminent military discharge just one week away and thoughts of my future wife. It was Channukah, 1998. A car was approaching the roadblock really, really fast. The horrid trance music was getting louder and louder as the car approached. I motioned with my hand for the car to stop and it complied. As soon as the driver rolled down his window, the pungent smell of weed hit me. Not that I would know what that smells like. Although I believe I once saw someone smoking a marijuana cigarette. Anyway, I also noticed the two striking babes sitting in the back. They were smoking hot.

“This isn’t the way to Tel Aviv?” the driver mumbled in Hebrew.
“No,” I laughed. “This is the way to Hebron. Turn around, drive five kilometers and make a right at Tzomet Shoket.”
“Oy va yoy. Are you American?”
“Yes. A very cold and tired American.”
“Stay warm American friend. Don’t eat the loof. It is very bad.”
“Thanks for the advice.”

The car drove off as quickly as it approached and my friend Ohad who remained conspicuously quiet throughout the bizarre dialogue said to me, “Harry, do you know who that was?
“No idea, who?”
“He was an actor from the soap opera Ramat Aviv Gimmel.”
“Oh, how funny.”

I knew of Ramat Aviv Gimmel but never watched it, for Ohad, it was the highlight of his three years in the army. For me, it was just a surreal experience. Little did I know, the night was going to get even more surreal.

About an hour later, another car approached the roadblock with a hanukia (menorah) attached to the top, blasting celebratory Jewish music. It was of course a Chabad mitzvah tank. The Chabadnikim jumped out of their van grabbed us by the hands and danced with us. A real “what the fuck is going on here” experience for me. I usually don’t dance with strangers but I let myself go for about twenty seconds.

The chabadnik to my left looks at me and says “Harry?”

I answered “yeah” and I looked really puzzled because I was really puzzled. The only chabadnik I knew was still running Shabbos House in Albany, NY. And needless to say, a remote roadblock on the green line is quite far from Albany.

“It’s Tzvi!” he exclaimed in English with a huge smile.

“Hmmm,” I thought. “Tzvi…Tzvi….Tzvi. Nope. I don’t know anyone named Tzvi.” “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are.

“Oh, right. You knew me as Mike Skolnick.”

Now Mike Skolnick was a name I was familiar with. I knew him from my Jewish youth movement. Nice enough guy, but not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. Boy had he changed. We chitchatted for a couple of minutes, my army friends commented on how I know more people in this country than they did (I always seemed to bump into someone I knew) and the Chabadnikim gave us a tremendous amount of sufganyot (jelly donuts) and sped off.

Believe it or not a couple of hours later another group of Chabadnikim arrived to deliver sufganyot. They asked us if Chabad had come yet. We said no. Selfish of us yes, but screw you, we were serving our country.

The next morning (althought I was sound asleep) we still had about 40 donuts left so my unti gave them to the workers who came through our roadblock daily.

It was a weird Channukah. One that I’ll never forget.

(Crossposted to The View from Here)

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Holiday haze

December 26, 2005 by · Leave a Comment
Filed under: General, Holidays 

You couldn’t really tell it was Christmas in Jerusalem yesterday. There were lights up, but that was for Hannuka, which by calendar coincidence, began last night.

There was a sign in the non-kosher butcher shop downstairs from the office wishing their Philippino clientele a Merry Christmas and reassuring them that the store would be open throughout the day. (There’s a lot of Philippino au pairs working around the country). And on the one cool Israeli radio station – 88FM – they played a smoky version of “White Christmas” by Diana Krall, now Mrs. Elvis Costello.

But aside from that, you’d be hard pressed to locate any indication that it was Christmas day. Sunday being a work day here, we went to work – even as the country was in the midst of its worst winter storm of the year. Flooding everywhere, and lots of snow in the North on Mount Hermon. So, if by chance, you were observing the holiday on the Golan, you really did have a white Christmas.

The rest of us lit candles, gave presents to our children, ate oil-filled latkes and jelly donughts, and spent the night feeling sick.
Only seven more days to go…

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Weeping Windows

December 25, 2005 by · Leave a Comment
Filed under: General, Immigrant Moments 

We can cry, deny but cannot ignore that winter has officially arrived. Bucketfuls of rain have fallen over the past two days. Storm sewers continue to cough up bucketfuls of smelly, chemically-laden gook and I am looking forward to going to Canada for a visit. Although it may be like minus 1000 there in January it is so much more cozy to be in Toronto than Tel Aviv in the winter. Canadians, you see, understand what is thermal insulation–triple glass windows, heating ducts, wall to wall carpeting and therefore can lounge in their underwear in the winter. Tel Aviv windows barely close, are old and cracked, leak. I wear scarves and hats indoors sometimes.

How can it be that we forget every year that it rains in Israel?

Posted by Karin Kloosterman

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Parking Rage Alive and Well

December 24, 2005 by · Leave a Comment
Filed under: General, Israeliness, Life 

Before I made Aliyah, it was implicit that upon returning home one either parked her car in the driveway or on the street at the end of the front path.
My mother loves to remind me of her indoor garage. My brother loves to bewail his needing to park two houses away every now and then.
Sure, there is a lot more space in Canada for people to park their cars. But there should be a limit to how many times I must circle my apartment block in search of parking. My home is in the Tel Aviv area, and let me say that I feel blessed if I find parking within a six block radius.
You see, in Israel it is customary to plan just one step at a time. Tel Aviv was too crowded, so smaller suburbs popped up around it. When the apartment blocks in the suburbs were built, architects didn’t necessarily think constructing parking lots as part of the buildings was important. And so, hundreds of drivers vie for tens of parking spots on a daily basis.
It can get nasty. Forget road rage, parking rage is alive and well in the Tel Aviv area. Insults fly, horns blare, bumpers collide, and every so often fists knock.
Each area’s residents are awarded (after shelling over about $10) with a parking tag. Don’t be fooled – the tag does not guarantee a spot, but rather ensures one won’t be fined for parking legally in the blue-and-white area.
For those who opt to park on the red-and-white marked areas (officially no parking areas), there’s always the probability of a ticket, or better yet one’s car getting towed.
Oh to think that before I bought my car I was worried my days of walking would come to an end. I still walk plenty – to and from my car. The other day I returned home after 40 minutes of circling my neighbourhood. I walked in feeling like I was lucky to have found parking within city limits.

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