The Story of the Pizza

Leaving the Corners of our Fields

2009-12-31T16:07:00.003-05:00

Mishnah Peah, which a friend of mine and I have been studying weekly, begins with a passage that is familiar to many Jews, but which, like many Jewish texts, is deeper and more complex than might seem apparent on the surface. "These are the things without measure: the peah, the bikkurim, and the re'ayon." The re'ayon is the obligation to appear at the Temple in Jerusalem at each of the three major Jewish festivals; the bikkurim refers to the biblical obligation to bring the first fruits of one's harvest to the Temple on Shavuot; and the peah (after which this section of the mishnah is named) refers to the obligation to leave the corners of one's fields for the poor.

I always thought when I read this text that "these are the things without measure," it meant, "these are things that you have to do endlessly," as in, "you can never do enough of these; you can never say, 'been there, done that.'" That would make sense to those of us who aren't farmers anymore-- who have to understand these texts metaphorically if we're going to truly live them, truly attempt to live out these mitzvot even though we don't live on farms. We'd need to say to ourselves, "you can never do enough for the poor. There's no upper limit to what we have to do to help our fellow human beings."

But the second mishnah which immediately follows this text turns what I thought I understood on its head. "Your peah should be no less than 1/60th, even though they say there is no measure."

If you were actually a farmer; if your food came not from A & P or Kroger or Shop Rite but from the sweat of your brow and the soil of your backyard, you'd need to know not what's the maximum I can do, but rather, what's the minimum I have to do to fulfill my obligation while still maintaining my ability to feed my family, and possibly sell the rest at market.

It's the ultimate "world as it is, world as it should be" paradox. In the world as it should be, we'd all be generous. We'd all give alot to be willing to help each other. If we were actually farmers, we'd each leave large corners of our fields for the poor. And if we weren't actually farmers, we'd write big checks to charities and give massive amounts of food to the poor and spend a large amount of our time battling the root causes of hunger in the first place. Perhaps you know some people who do act this way- who constantly see it in their self-interest to help others.

But in the world as it is, most people don't automatically act this way. We tend to give little, see little value or priority in helping others, tend not to see our self-interest as mixed in with the interests of others. We tend to need to know what the minimum is we must do, what the minimum is that we must give, the minimum price we must pay that society might continue and that we might be allowed to go on our merry way. I don't believe that we're fundamentally selfish-- just that neither are we naturally selfless, either. And the rabbis of the mishnah, now 1800 years ago, knew this, too.

If we are farmers, we want to know, "what is the minimum I need to leave in my field so that I can do my share (but not automatically do more than that)?" If we are not farmers, the question might be essentially the same, as a starting place, in the world as it is: "what is the minimum I must carve out of what I have to share with those who have less (even if I'm not inclined to do more)?"

While we're working for the world as it should be, the rabbis were wise IMHO to get into the nitty gritty of the world as it is. Maybe they figured that if they gave us the minimums, we'd work towards giving more?

I wonder how we might leave the corners of our "fields" today?

Socked in with snow, dreaming of Tu B'Shevat

2009-12-19T21:13:00.005-05:00

It's the biggest winter storm in recent memory on the East Coast... we're good and socked in with snow, which leaves me plenty of time to think about all the things I've left undone, like pay any attention to how much I love to write, and how little chance I take to do so...

This spot has been filled with so much promise, but like seeds in winter, the work of writing a blog needs love and dedication, and I've been exceedingly remiss. But with an exciting summer plan ahead of me, sooner than I think, I thought I'd give another go at reflecting on food and spirituality, and the connections between them. So here goes, with no promises...

My friend Ellen agitated me immensely and helpfully by challenging me to read "Eating Animals" by Jonathan Safran Foer. Strange-- as I heard about the book, listened to interviews with Foer, and began asking friends and colleagues about it, the reaction I had was the same as the reaction I got from most of my friends-- "I am afraid to read this book."

"What are you afraid of?" I asked myself and others. It seems we were all afraid of the same thing-- afraid of confronting what we intuitively know-- that something is profoundly wrong with our food industry.

I had read Michael Pollan's work religiously-- Omnivore's Dilemma, Botany of Desire, In Defense of Food. I had thought a great deal, preached a great deal, about the complexities and conspiracies of our food intake.

But nothing shocked my system like Foer's book. While Pollan takes a moderate view-- "Eat Food, Not Too Much, Mostly Plants," Foer's basic case is, once you really KNOW what's going on, how can you eat industrial fish, poultry, pork, or beef? Where Pollan encourages us to do the best we can, encouraging industry to change by way of our pocketbooks, Foer wants us to drop off the grid of meat eating altogether, because the whole system is so vile and cruel and unhealthy.

I have to say that as I went through all of the examples of farmers who are trying, to some extent, to do the right thing, as I followed Foer's systematic rejection of best practices and best efforts, I couldn't help but think that, had Foer written a book called "Eating Plants," he'd likely be equally unsatisfied with most every organic farming effort in this country.

But the long and short of it is that, since reading Foer's book, I am deeply agitated. I've eaten tuna salad, but no other animal protein. I'm actually revolted by the thought of eating meat right now. And, like Foer's dabbling with vegetarianism over the years, I am struggling with the question, "what's next?" Now that I KNOW, will I simply let time pass, agitation ease, and then go back to the way I was before? I don't want to. Now that I will never be able to say that I am ignorant of the travesty that is the industrial meat industry in this country, I can't go back to blissful ignorance. I can't go back; I just don't yet know what's in front of me.

And I'm hungry to know.

Don't Fence Me In

2008-06-17T21:52:00.002-04:00

It's been fun to plan out, plant, and tend a brand new garden, and all the more so since we decided to put it in the front yard. Indeed, as predicted by the "Food, Not Lawns" philosophy, I have met more of our neighbors in the past three months of working on this garden than I did in the six years since we moved in.

At first, I got alot of what felt like "uh, oh, there goes the neighborhood" looks. But since then, there have been an increasing number of friendly dog walkers, bike riders, and joggers who stop to chat, to shmooze about what we're growing, about the price of food in general due to the rise in corn prices and gas prices, and, as well, about other local issues.

A generation and more ago, goes the thinking, our grandparents had front porches where they'd sit outside in the summer; kids would play on the street in front of the house with the neighbors kids, and people would get to know each other. I can't confirm the veracity of that myth, but I am sure there is a great deal of truth to it.

What's for sure is that now anymore, the front lawn has become like the old English Manor lawn, tended, fertilized, watered, and certainly not walked- or played on. No, instead we build big back porches, screened in, or add nice metal gazebos cheaply purchased from the local hardware conglomerate. We sit in the rear of the house, only chatting with the people we've specifically invited. We play and socialize in the back yard, we fence in our yards to boot, and then wonder how it is that we don't know our neighbors.

It's time we get out from behind our literal and figurative fences and reconnect with the people around us.

As far as I'm concerned, if you want to build a fence to keep the deer from snacking on your tomatoes, that's fine. But why fence yourself off from humanity when you can learn so much from your neighbors about the latest gossip, or get tips about how to make the best compost, or just share in the common struggles of living in 2008? What is it that my kids sing incessantly from High School Musical? We're all in this together...

The Pizza returns!

2008-06-16T19:54:00.004-04:00

One year later, and with the encouragement of my local colleague Reverend Beth Quick, "The Pizza" is making a come-back!

So much to say, where do we begin?

I burned the first potato of the season. Yes, yes I did.

You see, inspired by a writer/permaculturist named Heather Flores who has the crazy idea of "Food Not Lawns," we planted a front yard garden this year. Sunflowers, carrots, a blueberry bush, basil, spearmint, rosemary, tomatoes, two kinds of lettuce, zucchini and potatoes are blossoming magnificently in our front yard in a 10 by 12 foot plot surrounded by metal fencing. It's gone so well, I almost fear to write about it.

Most of these things I've grown before, to some success. We threw the blueberry in for fun to see what happened, and then I planted the potatoes, sure somehow that since I have no Irish blood in me (as far as I know), I'd have no luck growing potatoes. And yet, there they are, going gangbusters!

The instructions that came with the potatoes said that as soon as they begin to flower, you can gently lift the plants and pick the small, new potatoes that are growing. I was so excited to see a flower and read this guidance that I ran right out and picked one. I ran back in, washed it, and put it in the microwave, hoping to pop the little guy right in my mouth, not two minutes removed from the ground.

Bad news. Two minutes in the microwave for a potato one-half-inch in diameter is apparently at least 90 seconds too long. I was impatiently puttering around the kitchen as the potato was being nuked, when Lys asked suddenly, "do you smell something burning?"

Yes, yes I did. One positively petrified potato.

If at first you don't succeed...

A Rhubarb by Any Other Name...

2007-06-21T23:26:00.000-04:00

My father loved rhubarb. We had a patch of rhubarb growing in our backyard growing up, and while I can't really remember ever actually trying any, I have always been convinced that I hated it, detested it, couldn't imagine ever trying it. Apparantly the plant is like a viscious weed-- you can never get rid of it once you plant it. I have no idea how he prepared it-- I'm fairly certain that he was the only one in our house to eat it. Elyssa has equally negative associations with the red red stuff.

And then, insert dramatic music here, the rhubarb arrived in our farm share. What to do? What to do indeed? We have resolved to use everything we get in our farm share each week. So far, it's been alot of greens and spices-- good, safe stuff so far.

But rhubarb? I didn't even know what I might do with rhubarb, even assuming I was so inclined. So I did a scientific study. And here's what I discovered. Seven out of ten people living in the Northeast offer nothing but blank stares when asked, "What should I do with the rhubarb I got in my farm share." And the other three say, "make rhubarb pie." When asked for a recipe, however, it transpires that even those three have never actually eaten rhubarb pie. It just seemed like the thing to say, apparently.

I went foodnetwork.com and saw all manner of rhubarb recipies, most prominently for varieties of rhubarb pie. Then I came across a recipe for rhubarb walnut muffins. It looked fabulous (other than thr rhubarb, of course), and easy, so we tried it. When they came out of the oven, I cut one in half and brought the 2 halves in to Elyssa for us to each try.

We have this funny thing we do whenever I make something I've never made before. I obnoxiously stare at her, making her try the first bite, just to make sure nothing terrible happens to her. She's always a really good sport, and I must say that what I cook usually turns out all right.

But not tonight. I brought the plate in, and she didn't flinch. Both of us looked at our muffin half like it might taste like castor oil. She lifted the muffin to her mouth, and then stopped, waiting to be sure that I was actually going to try the thing. In a gesture that qualifies us to mediate the Middle East conflict, we wordlessly agreed to pop the muffin in our mouths at the same time.

And suprise, suprise, we really like them!

Somewhere my father is laughing his head off.

Nothing like fresh greens...

2007-06-04T22:14:00.000-04:00

Warm salmon on fresh greens with honey mustard dressing and slivered almonds. If there is a world to come, this might be a taste of it. And when the greens are really fresh-- like, picked this morning less than an hour away-- there's something truly extraordinary about them.

Our farm share deliveries started today, and the best part was how excited the boys are. Our eldest was so excited to help divide up the three types of salad, the collard greens, the garlic greens, and the fresh mint which made the whole synagogue smell good. And 41 families from the congregation and outside had a taste of local and organic tonight.

Now it's time for what Israelis call tea eem nana, tea with mint. I can't wait!

How does your garden grow?

2007-05-26T16:45:00.000-04:00

We've gotten past Shavu'ot, and the weather is beautiful.

From a historical perspective, this Jewish festival celebrates the Israelites receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai. But it's also an agricultural festival, marking the season of the first fruits of the harvest.

The major Jewish holidays, Passover, Shavu'ot, and Sukkot, all have agricultural roots to them, but I feel that we rarely stop to think of those roots, perhaps because we're so removed from the importance of that cycle. We generally focus instead on the historical associations with the holidays. Don't get me wrong-- those associations are critically important, too. But I do feel that getting back to the agricultural meaning of the days might just help us reconnect with the earth in ways it seems we've also forgotten.

We are eagerly trying to be organic gardeners, so, like Farmer Rich, we've been counting the days since Passover, watching as our garlic, tomatoes, carrots, and green pepper have gone from seeds to tiny plants in our kitchen window, and then into the ground in our backyard. They've endured benign neglect from the Mosbacher Family, late frosts from Mother Nature, and an early attack from our resident ground hog. At the risk of jinxing the whole enterprise, things seem to be going well, so far:

Left to right: tomatoes, green pepper (mystery plants in back), carrots

In the bed: Heirloom Garlic

The garlic, planted last October, appears that it might actually make it!

We even have a couple of mystery plants in the bed behind the pepper plant; Elyssa speculates that these are pumpkin plants sprouting up from some pumpkin seeds that must have made it into our bionic compost. Oh, we're so organic, I can't stand it!!

Fair Trade for Nine-Year Olds

2007-05-26T15:35:00.002-04:00

My bright nine year old and I headed to our favorite donut-shop-that-must-not-be- named this morning. As we were exiting with our purchases, my son was nearly trampled to death by other impatient coffee-starved patrons as he stopped to read every decal on the exit door. You know, the ones that tell you the store hours and which credit cards are accepted.

As I yanked him (gently) to the relative saftey of the parking lot, he looked up at me with those bright eyes and asked, "Aba, what does 'We sell only Fair Trade Coffee' mean?"

This led to a great discussion about who makes/grows the food and drink we consume, and how much they do (or don't) get paid. The best part of the discussion was when he said, "Aba, that reminds me of The Story of the Pizza!" (Yeah, us!!)

He generously offered that if he owned the shop, he'd charge 4 dollars for a cup of coffee and give 2 dollars to the farmer. Praising him for his kindness, I reminded him that, from his remaining 2 dollars, he'd need to buy coffee cups, pay the electrical bill, pay someone to serve the coffee in the shop, and pay the rent on the shop itself. Leaving little or no money left over for the generous owner to buy Bionicles or Pizza for his family.

The talk then turned to a consideration of capitalism, roughly entitled, "Why Can't the Owner of the Donut Shop Charge 8 Dollars for a Cup of Coffee so that She Can Give 2 Dollars to the Farmer and Still Make a Profit?"

I'd say I handled the lecture on "Intro to Market Forces for Nine-Year-Olds" quite well, especially when you consider that the caffeine hadn't yet reached my nervous system!

Liberation Food for thought

2007-04-08T10:54:00.000-04:00

Okay, so eating for Passover certainly makes me think a great deal about what I eat.

It's impossible not to be incredibly cognizant of food intake during this holiday. We have been suprised and impressed about how good the kids have been in not complaining about what they can't eat; I think they've been better than we have!

Passover marks our liberation from Egyptian bondage, but it is also tied to the agricultural cycle. While it has been unseasonably cold here and around the country, in the past week, and promises to remain so, it is the time for new growth in the fields-- a time when anxious farmers wait to see the early signs of whether it'll be a good harvest year or not. I like that we as Jews have a tradition of counting the days between Passover and Shavuot-- it for me serves as a reminder of our connection-- no matter how tenuous these days-- to the land. No doubt in a more agrarian society, this is a time of counting each day, examining so careful the growth of new sprouts, the quantity of water that falls, and so on.

We can see a microcosom of this on our windowsill; two weeks ago, the boys and I planted tomato, carrot, bush bean, and flower seeds in pots, and they've all bursted through the soil. We've taken to calling the bush beans "Audrey," because they look suspiciously like the plant in Little Shop of Horrors. We have a small appreciation, through these plants, of what it must be like for Farmer Rich to be watching his fields each day.

Speaking of Farmer Rich, we have been talking to folks about signing up for the community supported farm we bought a share of last year. I think that 15 families or more that we've spoken to are buying shares, which is terrific! There'll be a drop off at our synagogue, so people can pick up their veggies very conveniently. We're very proud of this small effort to encourage people to eat locally and organically.

Two out of three ain't bad...

2006-09-25T16:41:00.000-04:00

So I got ambitious yesterday. Cooking for me is relaxing; spending time thinking about food is getting to be a great barometer of how crazy my life is. When I don't have time to think about it or cook, then life is just too darn hectic.

So in recovering from Rosh Hashanah, I decided to cook up a storm. And I wouldn't, of course, want to pick EASY things to make, so I decided to make pasta as a main dish-- specifically, tortellini. Note to self: don't try to make pasta without a pasta maker. Elyssa did a masterful job rolling the dough out by hand, thin as we could make it. We used an Alton Brown recipe, which, I have to say, was less than Altonesque, what with the ingredients listed out of order and the instructions kind of unclear, too. But ultimately, it came down to too-thick pasta. We cooked the stuff for 45 minutes and it was still, let's generously call it, "chewy." Yuck. The filling was nice (with garlic and basil from the farm), but the stuff was generally one of the more complete failures I've ever prepared. "The Story of the Pasta" was, in this case, a comedy of errors.

On to the garlic bread-- a gourmet Emeril recipe that was a fantastic success. And because of the utter meltdown of the main dish, it became the primary source of calories in the meal portion of this program. We used fresh parsely from the farm and a range of spices that left our mouths pleasantly tingly. It was great-- a definite keeper.

And then, the piece d'resistance (sp?). Peach upside down cake. Alton Brown redeems himself with this gourmet but incredibly simple recipe. It would be very impressive for a party. So chic. So delicious. And with peaches in season, quite fresh as well.

So two out of three made for a nice evening, especially since we fed the kids earlier and ate after they went to bed!

On Rosh Hashanah it is written...

2006-09-23T22:49:00.001-04:00

I spoke about "The Pizza" at my synagogue today-- about the value of knowing what we're eating and where it comes from. And I was impressed and amazed to learn just how many people were inspired to think more deeply about their diets.

I was also impressed by the number of people who are already buying CSA shares, or who have been contemplating it and may well have been pushed "off the fence" by my talk.

I met some new folks today, as happens at Rosh Hashanah inevitably, and also learned some new things about congregants I thought I knew. I met a couple of nutritionists who offered to come and run educational sessions at the synagogue; I heard from a congregant who is a biologist and another who is a chemical engineer. They each had a view about my comments from their own perspectives, and I really like that. I'm hoping folks will visit "The Pizza" and let us know what they're thinking about food.

I'm off to find some use for daikon radishes we received from the farm this past week; I've never seen or heard of them-- if you've got any ideas, let us know!

To all of our Jewish friends, Happy New Year!

It's really putting a crimp in my style...

2006-09-20T14:32:00.000-04:00

This whole "thinking about what I eat" thing is really putting a crimp in my old habits. I'm eating lunch at home more often, and when I know in advance I won't be able to get home for lunch I take lunch from home, and when I didn't know in advance that I wouldn't be able to make it home, my car seems to have forgotten the way to the Golden Arches and I have to be more creative in my food choices.

It's really getting annoying.

I'm also not spending the same amount of money I had been on fast-food; I think my favorite ATM machine is starting to miss me.

I don't know what to do with myself.

I certainly don't remember the last time I thought this much about what I was consuming calorically. Maybe that whole "garbage in, garbage out" thing can apply to people and not just computers.

Thanks to some help from my wonderful mother-in-law, we are freezing some of the tomatoes that came from the farm this week so that we'll be able to taste some of the freshness of summer in the cold of winter. I didn't know you could do that!

Scraping the bottom of an organic, local barrel

2006-09-03T01:01:00.000-04:00

When I came home on Tuesday with our farm share, it was a heavy load-- by far the most we'd received all summer.

And with the close of Shabbat, other than a random assortment of chili peppers and three small unidentifiable summer squash, it's all gone. I found a recipe that involves chili peppers and chocolate; since we began this adventure, Lys has been willing to try any recipe I've come up with. We've given the old college try to well-disguised god-forbids and chatzilim (eggplant), but I think she's going to draw the line at chili peppers and chocolate.

So what have I learned this week? It's been a great one for a number of reasons. Food just tastes better to me when I know it just came out the ground, for one thing. I'm no scientist or nutrition expert or flavor tester. I'm not sure I can quantify or qualify it, but I can just taste the difference between a tomato that has been on a jet and one that hasn't. Don't ask me how. Perhaps it's all psychological, but even if it is, that's my story and I'm sticking to it. Tomatoes with no frequent flyer miles taste like wind and sun to me, much more so than ones that were fed peanuts on their flight. Cucumbers that only have earth to be washed off before munching taste different than ones that need the wax removed.

And making a menu around what's been grown up the block instead of going down the block to the grocery store with my mind already made up--there's something so richly spiritual about it. When we say the blessing before a meal whose ingredients we know haven't come too far, literally or figuratively, from their source, I feel closer to The Source of our blessings. There's something about it that just feels like this was the way things were meant to be. Don't get me wrong: I love fresh strawberries in December as much as anyone. But when I do go to the supermarket this days, I am thinking more about the providence of the food, and whether it's what I am meant to be eating right now. And when the applesplumsorangesstrawberriesorwhatever has a sticker that says Costa Rica or some other far-flung place, I tend to put it back in favor of something--almost anything-- that was grown closer to home. And it feels good.

I can't wait till Tuesday. And if you ask me what I'll do when the growing season is well and truly over around here, the answer is, I don't know. It'll be an honestly sad day for me.

Eggplant innoculation

2006-09-01T00:18:00.001-04:00

When I was a kid, we had a garden on the side of our house, next to the garage. It wasn't too big, but it was big enough to grow a bunch of different things. A little sun, a little shade -- just right for growing so many things that I would never dream of eating. OK, maybe I'd eat some green beans, but that was it.

My parents, relative newcomers to the whole gardening scene, were nonetheless enthusiastic. So one summer, my dad decided to try his hand at eggplant. Never having seen eggplant in its unpicked state, he thought it prudent to plant a bunch, in case some didn't make it. So he planted 10 or 12 -- that is, 10 or 12 individual plants.

Well. Remember about the "a little sun, a little shade"? Apparently, that's just what eggplant likes. Every plant shot up, strong and fertile. And each blessed one grew probably 10 or 12 eggplants.

Eventually, the neighbors started to pretend they weren't home when they saw us coming, bearing our brown paper bags full of eggplant. We had so much, we literally couldn't give it away. It piled up in the kitchen, was cooked every which way. I'm not sure how we did it, but we all survived that summer.

And since then, no one in my family (except my mother) will eat eggplant.

But we got one in our farm share delivery this week, and Joel wouldn't let me give it away (like I did last week, when he wasn't home). He asked if I'd be willing to give it another try, and I said that if he could find a recipe that disguised it sufficiently, I'd be a big girl and try it again. He found a recipe for Grilled Eggplant and Peppers with Creamy Pesto Sauce, and that's what we had for dinner tonight.

I wish the story had a happy, uplifting ending: "Girl Discovers New Love of Eggplant!" Sorry, not today. The peppers were amazing, and the creamy pesto (basically pesto mixed with plain yogurt) was fantastic. But no dice on the eggplant.

At least I've done my duty. I figure it's like a tetanus shot -- I'm pretty sure that now I don't have to try it again for another ten years.

Earth to the Pizza Family

2006-08-29T00:38:00.000-04:00

I know, we're terrible bloggers. We promise descriptions of fabulous meals, then disappear for two months. Sorry! We're back to veggie pickup this week (thanks to all our kind friends who did pickup for us over the summer, and made excellent meals, even if they couldn't quite identify everything they received...), so hopefully back to blogging soon.

I will tell you we had an Indian feast last night, courtesy of Joel. No organic veggies were harmed during the making of the meal, but it was mighty good. And to go with dinner tomorrow, tonight we made a tomato-herb bread from an Emeril recipe, which just smelled too good so we had to cheat and try it. Mmm, mmm, mmm!

Veggie pickup tomorrow, so stay tuned for more merriment and eggplant!

Here today, gone tomorrow

2006-07-24T00:22:00.000-04:00

Sorry things are so quiet here at the House of Pizza. We've been away, having fun driving around the country and eating fabulous food with family and friends (wild mushroom and goat cheese quesadillas with the EK family -- man, were those good!) To all of you who hosted and fed us, our unending thanks!

Now we're off to camp for two weeks. Mmm, grilled cheese (and the occasional tofu dish for the vegetarians). We had an amazing dinner while we were home, which Joel promises to post about real soon. 'Til then, enjoy your veggies before the deer eat them (caught one red-hoofed in the garden yesterday)!

Sweet pea

2006-06-27T23:59:00.000-04:00

I must confess, I never really liked peas.

I'm sure I drove my mom nuts. Growing up, the only kind of peas I would eat were LeSueur -- you know, the Young Early Tiny Very Expensive Baby Peas in the Silver Can. No frozen peas, no store brand, no way, no how. I'd push them around the plate, pick them out of whatever they were in...

Then I started eating Indian food, which I adore. And there's peas in everything -- the rice, the samosas, the aloo gobi, all my favorite dishes. I was older, and no one would eat with me if I was still picking peas out of everything. So I tolerated them. But not more than that.

Until today. Our weekly Tuesday produce delivery came with fresh peas, the kind you have to shell yourself. Never had those before, but Joel had plans for a stir-fry, and the peas were going in. OK, set a good example for the kids, eat the peas, yeah yeah. Then, as I was shelling them, I thought I'd try one.

Holy cow! It's as if it's a totally different vegetable. Sweet, firm, not mushy... Whoa. I know what's going in the garden next year.

I've got the itch...

2006-06-26T23:16:00.000-04:00

Poison ivy, that is.

Even as we enjoy our weekly community support agriculture share this summer, we are attempting to develop our own extremely locally grown agriculture in our backyard garden. I guess than in a certain way, what I really want is for "The Story of the Mosbacher Pizza" to be really really short-- as short as "we picked everthing in our backyard and mixed it in the right measure and voila, pizza!" That's an ideal worth working towards.

Since the days when I watched my father, of blessed memory, make his garden larger and larger each year until it seemed to take over half the yard, I always imagined that I'd have a vegetable garden of my own some day. For some years, first in Atlanta and now here, I've learned through trial and error about the pleasures and pain of growing your own food. My first real experience in gardening sans advice from my dad involved planting bulbs. I planted them too early, so they came up in the middle of the winter. And, not knowing or really contemplating that bulbs had tops and bottoms, I planted about half of them upside down altogether. My gardening knowledge has been more empirical than textbook learning.

Now that we've got young kids of our own, having a garden is even more fun. Each year, the kids help me pick out what we should grow. We've started more and more things from seed in the late winter/early spring. So that as the Jewish calendar matures from Tu B'Shevat (the Jewish festival for trees which falls in January usually) towards Passover, we are more accutely aware of the argicultural cycle in our home. So, too, we are more and more aware of the frailty of farming. This spring, we planted about six different plants in small pots and put them in this great windowbox we have in our kitchen. Everything came up and has taken root beautifully in the garden, except the lupine, which, for reasons which remain a mystery, simply never so much as peeked their heads above the soil in the pot. Who knows why? And it's amazing. It's now months later, and our three year old still mourns for the lupine that never were. Each time we talk about the garden, we "oo" and "ah", and then inevitably the little one gets a little sad and says, "but the lupine never grewed up." It's a huge disappointment to him, and yet an amazing lesson for us all.

In any case, for each year for the past three summers since we've lived in this house, I've tinkered with a small plot, perhaps 3X6 feet. We've grown tomatoes, peppers, lettuce, squash, and a few other things over the years. But it's been crowded in there.

This spring, though, I got ambitious. I decided that we were going to clear the whole entire other side of the yard, which was covered in vines of suspicious variety. My wife warned me that there was poison ivy, but me, being me (just ask her!), determined that I was going to clear it all, sans chemicals, of course.

I spent several days in there-- probably eight hours in total. Each time, I emerged scott-free of itches or allergies. I had rigged up a veritable haz-mat suit for myself--longs and longs, rubber dishwashing gloves with gardening gloves. No problem.

On what I estimated to be my last day of work on the project, I guess I must have gotten cocky. I didn't suit up with quite the care as I had-- heck-- I hadn't gotten poison ivy yet. I got to thinking that I had mastered this thing-- I was teflon man.

Well, I was wrong. Not a major case of the itches-- just on my forearms. But I'm off to the doctor tomorrow for prednisone or whatever will make it go away.

What can I say? My learning curve-- about life, the universe, and gardening-- is a steep one.

We all have to start somewhere

2006-06-16T20:29:00.000-04:00

It's summer in New Jersey, so the strawberries are ready. We had strawberry shortcake for dessert one night last week. Our own strawberries, grown right next to the house, totally organic, local, seasonal. And on top, Cool Whip. Not even close to organic, totally processed. It made me wonder about this food thing we're trying to do. What good is it to know where your food's coming from, if you keep eating Cool Whip?

Then, interesting news from Whole Foods today. They're not going to sell live lobsters anymore, because they can't be sure the lobsters don't feel pain or distress in transit or in their tanks.

I must admit, my gut reaction was a large dose of skepticism. They're still going to sell dead lobsters (frozen, etc.), and they sell dead chickens, dead fish... you get the idea. [In the interest of full disclosure, I'm a tuna-tarian -- mostly vegetarian, but I eat fish.] So I'm not sure exactly how Whole Foods not selling live lobsters is going to do much -- the lobsters are still going to end up dead, one way or another. So someone else does them in before they get to Whole Foods -- big deal.

But then I thought about it some more. OK, so people who want to eat lobster are still going to eat it. But, as little a step as it may be, Whole Foods has taken a small step toward making sure that the food in its stores is not only grown in a way that's better for the planet and us, but also treated in a way that's more humane (I know, there's a whole other post in the irony of nice, kind behavior being called "humane," given how we treat each other).

Jewish tradition teaches that though we are not expected to finish the work of repairing the world, we still have do our share. So today, strawberries and live lobsters. Tomorrow, we'll take another step.

The fungus that must not be named

2006-06-08T22:38:00.000-04:00

The comedian Stephen Wright has a funny bit about waking up one morning to find that everything in his house had been stolen and replaced with an exact replica. I think that's how my mother is going to feel when she reads this post.

Mom, if you're reading this, sit down.

Are you sitting? Good. Perhaps you'll want to pour yourself a glass of wine before you continue.

Now you're ready for the earth-shattering news.

I have eaten mushrooms. Voluntarily.

More than that, I bought mushrooms and prepared them myself. Under no duress.

More than that, (please don't disown me), I liked them. Yes, you read that right.

For those of you who didn't grow up in my house, you need to know that there were some foods in our family that we called "God-fers," as in, "God forbid I should have to eat them." And mushrooms are the Platonic form of the "God-fer." Never was a mushroom to be found in food that my mom, my brother, or I ate. I think my dad used to eat them, but only when we were out of the house. Mushrooms were practically treif (unkosher) in our abode. Which is what makes my actions today so utterly bizarre, so out of character, so unheard of for someone who grew up at 730 Palm Drive. My brother, a world-class chef, still to this day does not each mushrooms, I believe.

Today, when I went to Trader Joes, I was in an open-minded mood. I bought a number of odd things. But oddest of all was mushrooms. Inspired once again by my recent reading, I decided, what the heck. I'm always telling the kiddos that they need to try stuff. The mushrooms at Trader Joes were grown less than an hour from my house. I'm trying to eat in the moment. I decided that I must try them.

I went from there to Toys-R-Us to pick up a birthday present for my son's friend. I called Elyssa to consult with her about what to buy, and in passing, I mentioned that I had purchased(the fungus that must not be named), and she almost dropped the phone. She's never been a fungus fan herself-- feels that the texture is too "squeaky". She threatened to take my temperature when I got home. But she agreed to keep an open mind.

Anyway, an already long story short, I purchased the white button mushrooms, and added them to some squash, barley, red pepper, onion, garlic, vegetable broth, sherry, and dill, and, bada-bing-- a not half-bad mushroom barley soup!

Elyssa is still suspicious about the texture. She said that perhaps it'd be okay if I cut them smaller. She offered me the last few mushrooms. And God-forbid if I didn't say yes!

I need to go check on my mom and make sure she still recognizes me.

Mom, it's me. Really.

Eating in the Moment

2006-06-07T20:37:00.000-04:00

Tonight, in the continued effort to use the unusual and interesting harvest we received from our community supported agriculture share, we made a different salad with mixed oriental greens, adolescent shanghai cabbage, white hailstone radishes, and green garlic. I can honestly say that I don't think I've ever eaten any of those veggies before, and it was really quite good (especially since we made a point of looking for slugs before we put the salad in bowls tonight)! We especially liked the green garlic, which looks like scallions but taste like garlic.

I am compelled by the idea that where what we eat comes from, and how it was grown, is as important as what we eat. As Michael Pollan points out in his "Omnivore's Dillema," why would we let something as important as food to chance? I am a huge fan of Consumer Reports. I wouldn't buy a toaster, a blender, an oven, or a dishwasher without first studying about it, learning about the varieties, the various models, the reported reliability of the gadgets, the warranties which the makers put behind them. So why is it that I don't demand a "Consumer Reports" for my food? Why would I, why would any of us, do something so foundational on Maslow's hierarchy of needs as eating, and yet give so little thought to what we were actually consuming?

There are 56 ingredients in the tofu patties my kids eat for dinner almost every night. Fifty-six! That's way too complicated, as far as I'm concerned. And of course, I haven't heard of nearly any of them. And of course, other than wheat and water, I don't believe that any of them grow naturally. They're almost all extracts of corn or soybeans. All that processed stuff. I guess that I want to be much closer to the earth than that. Carlo Petrini calls it slow food, and I think that that may be the eating ethic I'm looking for. It might be the kind of kosher I've been looking for. I want to be able to look the farmer in the eye and shake his hand, as I was able to do yesterday when I picked up our first harvest from the CSA. I want to be able to see for myself how my food is being grown. And I want to eat what's being grown right now, locally. A friend of mine has taught me alot about Thich Nhat Han and his focus on living in the moment. I might just start a new movement. I think I'd call it "eating in the moment." Eating what's growing right now, in this area, in this season. What a concept.

I'm off to seek out recipies for what to do with red mustard greens and tokyo bekana and rosemary. The farmer says that's what will be dinner tomorrow night, in some form or another.

Be careful what you wish for

2006-06-06T23:18:00.000-04:00

So we joined this community-supported farm for the summer/fall growing season. This particular one works by "selling" shares in the farm (max 50) for the season, and then the harvest gets divided up between the shareholders. The farm is local, seasonal, totally pesticide-free. This week was our first delivery, and we were eagerly waiting to see what we'd get. What we got was a lot of green: arugula, lettuce, mustard greens, enough rosemary to make the whole house fragrant.

So we settled in to make a huge salad, with arugula, Tokyo Bekana (an oriental green), mandarin oranges and walnuts. We sat down and dug in. It tasted wonderful -- sun energy instead of corn energy (read Michael Pollan's book "The Omnivore's Dilemma" for more about corn). We were happily chomping away (I'd eaten about half of a big bowl), when I noticed something on the side of my bowl. There, slowly climbing its way out of my honey-mustard dressing, was a small black snail (slug? who knows...).

Pesticide-free food is amazing, and knowing where your food comes from and who's growing it is fantastic. The unexpected protein I could probably do without...

--Elyssa

How it all began

2006-06-06T21:19:00.000-04:00

Elyssa says it really all began with "The Story of the Pizza."

The story of the pizza began when we were out at a local pizza joint with our two kiddos one evening. We had waited a bit too long to decide what to do, and, of course, once we decided, we picked one of the most popular restaurants in town. The wait was long, the kids were antsy, and we had just about had it even before we sat down at a table. Then we ordered-- pizza for everyone-- and the kids were bouncing off the walls.

So I decided, in a fit of either inspiration or persperation, to tell The Story of the Pizza. And it went something like this:

You know why the pizza is taking so long? Because the chef had to fly off to Iowa in his supersonic jet to pick the wheat for the dough. Then he had to bring it back here to the
restaurant, mix it with yeast and water, and let it rise for an hour or so before he could make it into pizza dough.

While the dough was rising, the chef jumped back in his jet and flew off to Wisconsin where he milked a good old Holstein cow. He took the milk to Rudolph, Wisconsin, where they made the milk into cheese. Then the chef jetted off to Florida where he picked some vine-ripened tomatoes for the tomato sauce. He brought it all back here, threw it all together and just on cue here comes the waitress with the pizza! alakazam! He made the pizza!

Telling the story of the pizza got me thinking a lot about where our food comes from-- really. Before it gets to our table. Before it gets to A & P or Shoprite. As Jews, we thanks God for what we eat before we eat it. It seems to me that being aware of the story of the pizza might just be a kind of food ethic I'd really like to live by.