Thanksgiving remains an exciting holiday for me because it is the one and only time of year that I get four consecutive days off work without having to dip into my vacation time. Other than that, I find Thanksgiving decidedly meh.
Thanksgiving remains an exciting holiday for me because it is the one and only time of year that I get four consecutive days off work without having to dip into my vacation time. Other than that, I find Thanksgiving decidedly meh.
“Jews don’t eat tacos.”
We were on the way to Oregon for a Labor Day weekend Scrabble tournament and I was trying to come up with a plausible excuse for my wife regarding why I am totally clueless when it comes to taco-eating etiquette. The depths of my ignorance in this particular realm is so deplorable that I can’t even manage to eat a fast food taco out of its wrapper without making an unholy mess all over the place. Shredded lettuce everywhere. Taco meat stains on my pants. Grease running down my chin onto my shirt.
My wife tried to tell me something about holding the taco by the wrapper on one end while taking bites from the other end and pushing the wrapper up as I go. This seems fine in theory, but I always seem to have trouble making allowances for the effects of gravity. And anyway, what am I supposed to do about the avocado shooting out of the top like some sort of perverse green lava while I’m trying to take dainty little nibbles out of the side?
The obvious reason that traditional Jews don’t eat tacos is that tacos have long been an integral part of the cuisine of Latin America, while most American Jews are of eastern European ancestry. I would no more expect tacos on the menu in Poland or Russia than I would expect kreplach, kugel and cholent to show up on the menu in Mexico. In other words, there is a cultural disconnect.
America, of course, is famous the world over for its cultural heterogeneity. While my forebears feared that the ocean crossing to the States would effectively obliterate all traces of our cultural identity in the bubbling American melting pot, the former assumption of assimilation eventually yielded to a celebration of multiculturalism. No one thinks it a bit odd to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day or to go out for margaritas and enchiladas on Cinco de Mayo, even if we have lack any Irish or Mexican ancestry. Chinese, Thai and sushi restaurants are everywhere for all to enjoy. And yes, non-observant Jews do eat tacos.
However, I grew up in a kosher household in New York in the 1960s. I never even heard of a taco. There wasn’t a Taco Bell in every neighborhood. Our community had no Mexican restaurants. And who would even think of such a goyishe thing, anyway? Feh!
The result was a bit of culture shock when I transplanted myself to a heavily Mexican-American area of California’s Central Valley in the mid-1990s. Never mind that I didn’t speak Spanish. I didn’t even understand the minhag ha’makom, the cultural lingua franca. I embarrassed myself well and truly when I sheepishly admitted to not knowing what a tortilla was.
Even if traditional Judaism had not built bulwarks against the multicultural environment so prevalent in the United States, our religious proscriptions could never have tolerated the taco. Meat and cheese together? Hass v’shalom! You should wash your mouth out with soap! Jewish dietary laws prohibit eating meat and dairy products at the same meal, much less in the same tortilla. And who could even find a tortilla not made with lard? Remember, we don’t eat anything that comes from a pig.
Oh, how times have changed. Packaged tortillas bearing kosher certification are now available at your local supermarket. And thanks to the fake meat revolution spearheaded by industry leaders Beyond Meat and Impossible Foods, and the host of non-dairy cheeses now on grocery store shelves, it’s perfectly easy to prepare a respectable pareve (non-meat and non-dairy) taco that even vegans can enjoy. Inevitably, the fast food industry has begun to get on board this train.
Much has been written about the Beyond Burgers sold by Carls Jr. and the Impossible Burgers on the menu at Burger King. Could the taco be far behind? Not a chance. While Taco Bell seems to be holding out, competitor Del Taco has zoomed forward with its Beyond Meat tacos. The avocado version, which eschews the cheese, even claims to be vegan.
While no Orthodox Jew would be eating fast food of any kind, those of us raised in middle-of-the-road, suburban, Conservative Jewish kosher households now find it possible to join the crowd in indulging in fast food tacos. All of which brings me back to my dilemma: How are you supposed to eat the darned things without making an unholy mess? Put them on a plate and use a knife and fork? I remain clueless.
To make matters worse, I arrived at the Scrabble tournament in Oregon to learn that the entrance fee included lunch on Saturday and Sunday. Guess what was served at the first lunch? Someone was about to make a great big mess in front of his fellow competitors.
The night before the tournament, I had trouble sleeping. Not unusual for me when at out-of-town hotels. In bed, I picked up my phone and began perusing the day’s news. A story that caught my eye described a new tactic employed by the City of West Palm Beach, Florida to discourage homeless persons from sleeping on the lawn of one of the city-owned properties. All night long, the city blares from its speakers an endless music loop consisting of the children’s songs “Baby Shark” (doo doo doo doodoodoodoodoodoo) and “It’s Raining Tacos.” This tactic, known as “the weaponizing of sound,” has been roundly criticized by many.
My curiosity got the better of me. A song about tacos? This I had to hear. I pressed “play.”
Um, bad move.
Take my advice: Don’t do it. If you’re not familiar with this Parry Gripp ditty, you are better off remaining in blissful ignorance.
Okay, don’t listen to me. But don’t blame me when you can’t get this catchy tune out of your head for days. (Shell! Meat! Lettuce! Cheese! Cheese cheese cheese cheese cheese!)
And whatever you do, try not to think of this song while you’re making an unholy mess eating tacos with several dozen fellow Scrabble fanatics. If you bob your head and start humming while you’re spewing shredded lettuce everywhere, someone is going to wonder what’s really in that water bottle.
I am not a pet person. (I’ve mentioned this fact on a number of previous occasions in this space — here and here, for example). Today, however, I almost wish I were. You see, our county animal shelter is full.
I’m not exaggerating here. The Bradshaw Road facility out near Highway 50 is usually pretty close to capacity (they chalk it up to a combination of overpopulation due to a failure to spay/neuter and the general public attitude that cats and dogs are disposable). But this is different. They are full. No vacancy. No room at the inn. Can’t take any more no matter how desperate the situation. Nowhere to put any kitty or puppy that shows up at the door.
How can I adequately explain how desperate the situation is? At the beginning of December, the shelter’s occupancy level was labeled “extremely full.” This week, however, the Sacramento Bee reported that a local animal advocacy group posted the following on Facebook: “The shelter is beyond capacity. There is NO MORE ROOM!”
Because I am a hopelessly sappy sucker, I’d actually consider adopting one of these critters if I didn’t live in a place where no pets are allowed (except for the landlord’s pets — more about that later this weekend). I’m lucky to have something to save me (and the poor dog or cat who got stuck with me) from my own folly.
Arthur and Ophia, two of the pit bulls currently available for adoption at the Sacramento County animal shelter.
I suspect that one of the reasons for the shelter being overflowing is that most of the dogs currently up for adoption are pit bulls. Like German shepherds and labs, these dogs are big guys. This means that they demand a lot of the shelter’s resources. Also, they’re harder than a lot of breeds to adopt. They eat a lot, they poop a lot, and they need a lot of space to run around in. You probably shouldn’t have a pit bull if you live in a one-bedroom apartment. Also, well, pits have a bad rep. Some people are afraid to have them around babies and little kids. And every so often, you read a story in the news about some unfortunate who was mauled to death by his or her own pit bull. There are plenty of people out there who love this breed, but pits are clearly not for everyone.
Then there are the cats. This evening, I’m seeing 62 of them on the shelter’s website. Six of those were recently adopted. This is as opposed to 17 of the shelter’s 74 dogs having been recently adopted. More than a few of the available felines are labeled as “barn cats,” which I suppose is an appeal to those who have mice to get rid of. Then again, I suppose “barn cat” is a not-so-subtle hint that this is not a cute, cuddly kitty who is going to curl up in your lap and purr while you’re watching Netflix.
Oh, I should mention that there are also three rabbits and four chickens up for adoption at the shelter. No goldfish, turtles, hamsters or snakes, apparently.
It’s no surprise that the adoptable chickens are not the egg-laying hens that everyone wants. No siree, they’re loud, obnoxious, pugilistic roosters. We’ve got plenty in our neighborhood, some of which have a predilection for crowing in the middle of the night. My guess is that if these guys ever get adopted, they’ll go straight in the pot with a bunch of carrots and onions. I see them for sale all the time in cages by the Mexican butcher shop at the corner of Main and Rio Linda Boulevard. I can only hope that they don’t end up forced into illegal cockfighting, a fate arguably worse than being served up next to the mashed potatoes. As for the rabbits, they need to hold on for another three months or so until they’re in demand as Easter gifts. Otherwise, they may well meet the same fate as the roosters.
I have to wonder how many of the shelter dogs and cats will end up murdered — I mean “euthanized.” As if I had to mention it. You know what euthanized is a euphemism for. Back in school, I learned that “euthanize” is from the Greek for “good death.” But you know that half of what you learn in school is propaganda and lies. I was well into adulthood before I learned that the correct translation of the Greek is “couldn’t get adopted.”
Some have registered surprise that an animal lover such as myself doesn’t have pets. I mean, since I’m vegan and all. And especially since I don’t have kids. (As if pets can substitute for children. People are so dumb.)
Honestly, I can understand why more people don’t adopt dogs and cats. They’re a lot of work, they cost a lot of money, and then they die on you. I had to laugh this week when I read an article about a dog that helped save a fat man’s life. This guy weighed 340 pounds, was taking 15 different medications, and all efforts at weight loss had failed him. He hurt all over and tried not to move any more than he had to. (I weigh more than that. You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.) Apparently, he was spurred into action by an embarrassing moment when a plane he was on had to be delayed while they found a seatbelt extender large enough to fit him. Haha! I’ve got that one all figured out. I don’t fly. Oh, this guy had to travel for his job. So do I. Luckily for me, my employer insists on using the discount carrier Southwest, which has a rule that fat people have to buy two seats. Score! Now it’s cheaper for me to drive than to fly. I’ll be laughing at my destination while the others are waiting hours to get through the TSA line.
So then this guy makes an appointment with a naturopathic doctor, who tells him to switch to a plant-based diet. Again, haha! Plant-based diets are certainly gaining popularity; even Kaiser encourages this now and has messages about it on their interminable “hold” recordings. But after three years of being vegan, I can tell you firsthand that eating plants won’t by itself make you thin. The article cited Bill Clinton’s diet, which I’ve read is not totally vegan despite his representations to the contrary.
Then the naturopathic doctor ordered this guy to go to the animal shelter and get a dog. “Why a dog?” he said. “Can I adopt a cat instead?” The doctor responded: “Have you ever walked a cat?” Again, haha! No, I have never walked a cat, nor a dog either. As I see it, you have a nice fenced yard, you let the dog out, it does its business, it comes back in. Or, like our landlord, you leave the dog in a large pen outside the house all day. But going out in the dark of night (this time of year, I go to work and come home in the pitch blackness), freezing cold, wind and snow with a plastic bag and pooper scooper? No how, no way. Oh, and by the way, if I want to go walking for exercise, I don’t need a dog (or cat) to do that.
All of which brings me to my mother. Her beloved Siamese cat, Taffy, left for kitty heaven a little over a year ago at the age of 18. Taffy was originally my sister’s, but wasn’t doing well cooped up in Sis’s condo. She drove Taffy and her meds down from the Bay Area to my parents’ house, in hope that the country air and space to roam about might improve her health. It did. Taffy took to her new life as an outdoor/indoor cat and throve with my parents for more than a decade and a half. Now she’s buried out at the back edge of their property.
Mom’s Siamese, Taffy, back in 2015.
My sister from Boston, who came out to visit this past week on the occasion of my parents’ 65th wedding anniversary, decided that the time has come for Mom to get another cat. I suppose I can understand this, as she’s nearly always had a cat (or two). There were entirely too many for me to remember, but I do recall a gray one named Pussy Willow, an all-white one named Snowflake, an orange hellion named Mewcus (eww), another gray one named Schwantzy and a huge white one with black ears and paws with the unlikely name of Baby Baldrick (who ran away to become a Canadian chat when we attempted to retrieve him from a kennel at a campground in Québec). Mom doesn’t believe in spay and neuter, so we had cats that would have as many as three litters per year. I remember my sisters and I standing with a boxful of kittens on Saturdays, yelling “Free Kitten!” until we were hoarse in front of Pathmark on Route 59.
Nevertheless, I think Mom, who is well into her 80s, should decide when she’s ready for another cat, not my sister. But Sis pushed the issue, taking Mom to Petco to look at the adoptable cats, then to the local animal shelter, where over 200 felines were available for adoption. Mom was impressed by the way that the cats had free reign over the place, prowling in and out of cat doors to visit each other in various rooms and out of doors, as well. But she couldn’t seem to find exactly the one she wanted. She said she doesn’t wanted a little kitten, nor does she want an older, lazy fat cat. So what exactly did Mom want?
A Siamese. Mom’s favorite cat was a Siamese named Pouncy who was run over crossing the road in front of our house when I was two years old. She lives on in my father’s reels of Super 8 home movies. After my parents retired and moved to California, Mom’s first cat was a dusky blue-eyed Siamese beauty named Bonnebeau (supposedly because she was beautiful and good). Of course she wasn’t spayed, so Bonnie, an indoor cat, went into heat and meowed piteously to be let out to have at it with the neighborhood toms. Eventually, she did manage to get out and celebrated her newfound freedom by taking off for parts unknown.
Unfortunately, Mom and Sis did not see any Siamese at either Petco or the animal shelter. So my sister got online and showed my Mom pictures of cats, including Siamese, available for adoption from the Cat House on the Kings, over in Fresno County.
Then my sister got on a plane and headed home, after which Mom admitted that she doesn’t really want to deal with another cat.
We just spent the last two days with family and we will again on Christmas Day. We have a break in the middle for the purpose of driving up California’s Central Valley to maybe throw a load of laundry in and spend a night sleeping in our own bed before heading north to do it again with another part of the family.
Today is my parents’ 65th wedding anniversary. We had Shabbat dinner at their house on Friday evening, followed by an informal party on Saturday. In between, we drove down to the rural area of southern Fresno County to watch my wife’s three year old grandniece open gifts.
Both my sisters, along with two of my nephews, were present for my parents’ big day. Mom made up the hors d’oeuvres platter, my parents bought the cake at a local supermarket, and one of my sisters did most of the cooking. She and her husband are pesco-vegetarians, but they accommodated my vegan ways by preparing tofu ratatouille, broccoli, rice and potatoes along with their salmon. The carnivores in the crowd had meatballs and franks.
One of my sisters lives over in the Bay Area and commutes to her job in the Central Valley. Working 12-hour shifts in a hospital, she has a crazy schedule and was lucky to get a day off to attend our festivities. My other sister is a teacher in the suburbs of Boston, while her husband is a tech industry exec in Dallas. All three of their kids are in Boston; two work in tech, while one is still in college. After years in Dallas, Sis left her husband behind and decamped for Boston in June, mostly because their anorexic daughter was in and out of the hospital and Sis was worried sick. Before long, my niece told Sis to buzz off, which, understandably, my sister took hard. Still, she enjoys the Jewish community and liberal academic environment that Boston has to offer, a far cry from her red-state experiences in Texas. Back in Dallas, hubby takes care of the house and the cats and is overseas for his job one week each month. He visits Sis in Boston frequently. The thought is that, eventually, they’ll buy a house in Boston. None of us is getting any younger, and hubby is bound to retire sooner or later. Meanwhile, Sis rents a room in a house owned by a couple she knows. She complains that the room is drafty and is usually too cold in the New England winter. But she loves her job and being near friends and her kids.
I am reminded of my parents, who were also separated for a number of years due to their careers. My mother worked in places like Rhode Island and Utica NY while Dad stayed in the house in the suburbs of New York City, making a long drive to visit Mom once or twice each week.
What a way to live, huh? I know that, these days, you have to go wherever the job is, but I always think in terms of wife and husband moving together. Then again, I think of marriage as involving shared finances as well as a shared residence. Yet my parents have kept their finances separate for decades. I used to think this was unusual, but now I’m starting to hear that it’s not so uncommon. Blech!
The funny thing about my family, that was really brought home to me during our visit this week, is that we have next no nothing in common. From a common origin, my sisters and I have shot off in totally different directions in terms of geography, family and career. I’m glad that I don’t see my sisters very often, as I can’t imagine us getting along for more than a few hours every year or so. We simply have different worldviews, and I sometimes wonder whether we’re really from different planets. Certainly I couldn’t ever see calling one of them to ask for advice on a problem. For the most part, I prefer to have as little to do with them as possible.
The disjointedness of our lives became embarrassingly apparent as my sister from Boston attempted to encourage conversation as we all sat together in my parents’ family room on Saturday. There were long pregnant pauses, during which three or four of us would be occupied by apparently fascinating things on our phones, the rest of us absorbed in our own thoughts or staring off into space. Hospital Sis was sprawled out on the couch, nearly asleep. Boston Sis would offer conversation starters such as “Who has an interesting story about their job?” or “Who has done something interesting lately?” or “Has anyone seen any good movies or TV shows recently?” Most of these overtures fell flat after a minute or two, leaving us in physical proximity, but as emotionally distant from one another as we usually are geographically.
When it was time for dinner, we had to rustle up my wife and Hospital Sis, both of whom were fast asleep. Mom decided to wake up Sis by tickling her, which devolved into loud accusations of rudeness from both sides, along with threats never to visit again. Typical for us, I’m afraid. As Trump is so fond of saying, “Sad!” I don’t know why we bother to put on this dog and pony show, regardless of the occasion. Mom is a firm believer that “blood is thicker than water,” that families must stick together regardless of the profound differences between their members. Uh, enjoy?
Finally, when the cake and ice cream was served after dinner (no vegan desserts available, although I declined the offer of an orange), Hospital Sis resorted to web searching on her phone for a site full of courtroom jokes. Some of them were quite funny, primarily at the expense of inept attorneys, and we all laughed at them. Then Dad began to tell the same racist and dirty jokes that he’s told since I was a kid.
Soon, my wife and I drifted off to the family room to visit with my nephew, who told us stories about his life in the Bay Area. Everyone else remained in the living room, from whence I could hear my mother telling family stories about her parents’ emigration from Europe to America, the same stories she’s told dozens of times, year after year.
I’m not coldhearted enough to say no to my parents when they want all of their children present on the occasion of their 65th anniversary. Sixty-five years of fussing and fighting, yelling and cursing at each other. I know I’m not unique in this respect. As Tolstoy famously wrote, “every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
As if to prove the truth of Tolstoy’s observation, my wife’s niece called us on FaceTime while we were at my parents’ house. She is 20 years old, has a 5 year old daughter, and can’t figure out what she wants in life. I attempted to give her advice along the lines of being true to herself, as she thinks she led a guy on, who she now wants to let down easy, or maybe not. Respect yourself and insist that he respect you was my recommendation. We had the call on speaker, and I think we put on quite a show for my own family.
As if to add a punch line to a decidedly unfunny joke, we stopped for coffee on the way home today and proceeded to drive over a nearly invisible concrete divider at the entrance to a parking lot, blowing out one of our tires. Right in front of a tire shop, I might add — a tire shop that was closed for Christmas Eve.
This makes two months in a row. Last time, it was on a desolate stretch of interstate in the middle of the Arizona desert on the way to the Grand Canyon. At least this time we had friends nearby who came to our rescue while the Triple A tow truck hauled off our vehicle to the only open tire shop in the area, about 15 minutes down the road. We had one hour until the shop closed, just enough time for them to take off the flat and install a new tire, to the tune of $165.
Uh, merry Christmas?
Sunset over Pacific Beach, La Jolla CA
I spent part of this week on a business trip to the southern end of our great state, training staff down in San Diego. The ocean’s moderating influence on air temperature makes the California coast particularly appealing for inlanders like myself this time of year. So I was surprised to learn, while watching live video feeds of the devastation wrought by Hurricane Harvey, that San Diego was under an “extreme heat advisory.” The temperature? 85°F. What I thought to be pleasant is apparently dangerously hot by San Diego standards. I suppose it’s all a matter of what one is used to.
Meanwhile, back home in Sacramento, we continue to experience day after scorching day of 100° plus temperatures, as one of the hottest summers on record marches on into September. Driving north from San Diego, we stopped for lunch in Santa Clarita before chugging over the Grapevine into the Central Valley. The thermometer in our car displayed an outdoor temperature of 112°F. It felt like a flashback to our three years of living out in the Mojave Desert. Our holiday weekend promises more of the same, with the Saturday temperature forecast to hit 111° here in California’s capital. We hide out in our tiny house and blast the A/C. 150 miles to our south, my octogenarian parents (who rarely turn on the central air in their large home) have been paying $400 per month in electricity bills just to keep the house cool enough to avoid heat stroke.
During the monotonous 1,000 mile plus round trip to and from San Diego, it was hard not to notice the roadside signs and billboards up and down the Central Valley along Interstate 5 and Highway 99. I am a bit too young to remember the whimsical Burma Shave signs of yesteryear, but old enough to recall the goofy South of the Border signs that dot Interstate 95 through North Carolina as one approaches that tourist trap in Dillon, S.C. Anyone remember the upside down sign emblazoned with the legend “Pedro Feex Later?” It sounds more than a bit racist now, but as a child in the 1970s, I didn’t know any better and thought it was hilarious. This from a New York Jewish white boy who had never met a Mexican-American and didn’t know what a tortilla is until the age of 35.
Here in California, the signs planted in the fields along the vast empty expanse of freeway cutting through Fresno, Kings and Kern Counties shy away from cheesy advertising in favor of pleas for water. Yes, water. You have to live here to appreciate the never-ending political and financial battles over obtaining more water for agricultural purposes. Now, I don’t pretend to know a thing about California water politics, but I am aware of the constant shrieking and hand-wringing over the relative merits of building tunnels in the Bay Area and high-speed rail service between San Francisco and Los Angeles as opposed to making greater efforts to satisfy the seemingly insatiable thirst of our farmers. I also hear a lot about diversion of Sierra Nevada snow melt runoff away from the Central Valley to satisfy the water needs of southern California cities. Amidst allegations of the south stealing the north’s water, I am reminded of the nation’s bitter division during the Civil War. Indeed, there are perennial proposals for everything from California’s secession from the Union to dividing our sprawling state into two, four, six or eight states of more manageable size with greater local control. If you don’t believe me, check out hashtag #calexit on Twitter or this recent article from the Sacramento Bee or this one from the Los Angeles Times. In California, land of the ballot proposition, anything (no matter how outrageous) can be put to a vote.
With water being the essence of life, it is difficult for anyone to argue against it. However, the signs along the freeway have a tendency to pander to base instincts at the expense of rational thought. One is led to believe that providing more water to California’s agricultural interests is a “no brainer.” But is it, really? And so, without further ado, I present for your entertainment two of my favorite roadside signs that I have seen in multiple locations with a number of minor variations.
“Is growing food wasting water?” The most recent version of this sign features a photo of a young boy with a puzzled expression scratching his head. Um, well, for starters, define your terms, please. What exactly do you mean by “growing food?” Perhaps you are referring to California’s famous fields of lettuce, onions and tomatoes, our orange groves and almond orchards, our world-renowned vineyards. Or perhaps what you really mean are the vast hay and alfalfa fields that suck up water to feed, not our people, but the animals that power the state’s beef cattle, dairy and poultry industries. This type of “growing food” leaves us with a legacy of methane gas that contributes mightily to global warming (I told you it was hot) and waterways polluted with millions of tons of animal feces. If you should happen to think I’m being overly dramatic, by all means take a ride down I-5 past Coalinga and catch a whiff as you whizz by Harris Ranch. The hubris of that operation in posting billboards advertising its restaurant boggles my mind. How would you like your shit today, sir? Rare, medium or well done?
Is growing food wasting water, you ask? I’m surprised that the state’s agricultural industry has the nerve to bring this up. It sure is wasting water when used to sustain hungry and thirsty livestock just long enough to kill the poor beasts and turn them into hamburgers, steaks and Chicken McNuggets. If raising animals for meat and dairy were banned from the state, we’d have more than enough water to grow the plants needed to feed our own people and export to neighboring states and to the world. But agricultural interests don’t want you to know that. They must think we’re ignorant, stupid or both.
“No water for valley farms = No jobs!” Oh, goodness, you’ve got to love this one. Again, define your terms, please. No jobs doing what?? No jobs picking grapes, strawberries and citrus? Check out this article in today’s paper, suggesting that a significant reduction in the number of undocumented Mexicans crossing into the United States to perform backbreaking labor in the fields at low wages has resulted in increased automation and fewer jobs. This has nothing to do with water.
Then, of course, one must consider the folly of the paradigm that is California’s agriculture industry. The PR people will tell you that we are “the nation’s salad bowl” and that we feed the world. Excuse me, but why? Anyone who thinks about our climate for even a minute would have to at least ask. The climate of California’s Central Valley is Mediterranean, just one tick shy of desert. We are a very dry place. It doesn’t rain at all here for most of the year. Our water supply depends largely on how much snow the state’s northern and eastern mountains get in the wintertime. The phrase “seven years of drought” is bandied about regularly. Yes, we have year-round sunshine and suitable land, but who in their right mind would plan extensive agriculture in a desert climate with little water? All of us need a steady, reliable water supply for our homes and families. I say people before agriculture.
Our state’s agricultural industry is largely dependent on irrigation. That means bringing in water from elsewhere because we don’t have much here naturally. Wouldn’t it make a lot more sense to concentrate our nation’s plant-growing operations in areas that God has blessed with plenty of water instead of in the desert? The Pacific Northwest and New England come to mind. Why deprive the people of our cities of their water supply in order to run the Rain Birds and sprinklers that prop up the state’s agriculture?
When the sign says that no water means no jobs, what it really means is that no water means no agricultural jobs. The state’s big agricultural interests would have us believe that we’ll all be out of work unless we kowtow to their demands to commandeer our scarce water supplies so they can keep making money. This is a lie, pure and simple.
I have to laugh when I hear the wry suggestion that the entire valley be paved over to bring all the call centers here from India and the Philippines. I do get it, though. We have evolved into a post-agricultural, post-industrial economy that focuses on the information industry. Concentrating our state’s economic efforts in that direction instead of wasting them on irrigation not only fits with the realities of climate change but would also create plenty of jobs and bring renewed prosperity to California.
Uncle Guac’s Stupid Sign of the Day
(Hand-written on green construction paper and taped to a telephone pole. I wish I could have taken a photo of it, but I was driving.)
I will buy your house for ca$h! Call Larry.
Oooh, Larry, now aren’t you a stud? Put that dollar bill away, you big spender, you. Actually, I’m not looking for ca$h. I was kind of hoping you would pay me in chicken eggs. Bawk!
Sunday afternoon. Sitting in our car in front of a Wal-Mart on the drive back from my parents’ house down south. My wife ran in for a minute to get a couple of things, so I get to people watch in my air conditioned cocoon, buffered from the 104°F heat just outside my door.
I feel sorry for the cart guy as he leans into his conga line of shopping trolleys in the searing sun. Here comes a young woman in an orange T-shirt (logo illegible from this distance) and bright purple hair. We once had a Chevy that color, but I never associated it with a part of the human body. Out comes a middle aged woman pushing an empty cart. You have to wonder what’s up with that. Wouldn’t you leave the cart in the store if you couldn’t find what you’re looking for? Maybe she needed the cart to lean on. The woman’s deeply wrinkled face makes her look old, perhaps a legacy of years of nicotine. Indeed, she has a cigarette hanging from her lips; the second she crosses the store’s threshold into the dreadful heat, she lights it.
My thoughts drift away to our Fathers’ Day visit to my dad. We went out to dinner to a local Italian place on Friday night (I need the gluten-free pizza crust, please, and here’s a little Baggie of vegan cheese to use in place of the mozzarella, okay?) and to a steak house on Saturday (an order of broccoli, please, steamed with no butter, and a baked potato with just chives; also a salad with no cheese, croutons or dressing). Family occasions can be a challenge for gluten-free vegans.
It seems that I seldom come away from a visit to my parents without at least a few stories that I hadn’t heard before. I need to hear these while I still can.
This time, I learned that my uncle, age 90, is one of the youngest veterans of World War II. He was sent overseas with the Army Air Corps at the very end of the war; when the war ended, he was still eighteen years old.
Then there’s my dad’s take on history. During the Great Depression, he tells me, the life expectancy of an American male was 62 years. A guy who had a job would remain employed until he was too old and sick to work. Then he’d spend a year sitting on a park bench. Then he died. There was no Social Security. No one took care of you, my father went on; people took care of themselves. Before FDR’s New Deal, he told me, our guarantees extended to life, liberty and property. How you ate and paid your rent was up to you.
My father seems to long for those days. His ideas put me in mind of Archie and Edith Bunker, opening each episode of “All in the Family” by singing “didn’t need no welfare state/everybody pulled his weight.”
I have some questions. Was it really like that? Or is it more like wearing rose-colored glasses regarding the Good Old Days? How did the old, sick guy on the park bench support himself for that year? And what about his wife?
I suspect that part of the answer lies in extended families supporting each other. I’ve been rereading Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath lately, and it is not lost on me that the Joads dragged the elders of the clan along with them as they headed west, even though Grandpa had to be drugged to prevent him from stubbornly remaining behind.
Just as my octogenarian father waxes wistful over a time long gone, I wish we still lived in an age when people stuck together. The breakdown of the American family over many decades results in people in need having no support (of either the financial or the emotional kind). We have elderly folks living by themselves in little apartments, spouses dead or divorced, children moved to distant cities and states to pursue their own lives and dreams. Perhaps striking out on their own and leaving family behind is reflective of the pursuit of happiness. After all, family members often don’t get along. And yet, in the days before public assistance, it seems that families had to get along just to survive.
It makes me sad that we seem to cherish the freedom to worship the self and ignore others and, ultimately, the freedom to end up old and alone.
With the eight days of Passover starting Monday night, I find myself feeling a bit nostalgic. I first led a Seder, the traditional family dinner at which we recite the story of the Israelites’ exodus from slavery in Egypt, at the age of six. Neither of my parents were able to read the Hebrew and Aramaic from the Haggadah, and I had already been attending an Orthodox Jewish school for two years. We hold two Seders, on each of the first two nights of the eight-day holiday, and I have attended at least one nearly every year of my life.
This year will be an exception. I thought about driving four hours to visit my parents and attend a Seder at their synagogue, but that would have required me to take two to three days off work. I could attend a communal Seder at one of the area synagogues, but even then I’d have to take at least a day off work. The Seder can’t start until sundown, and usually lasts until well past midnight. That makes it tough to get up for work at 4:30 in the morning. So I will have to skip the Seder this year, although that doesn’t mean that I will “pass over Passover.” The holiday comes with many dietary restrictions and I plan to honor as many as I am able.
As bad as I feel about not attending a Seder, the whole matzo situation makes it even worse. Matzo is the traditional crackerlike flatbread that we eat for eight days to remind us of the unleavened bread pulled abruptly off the hot rocks of Egypt before the loaves had time to rise when the Jews were thrust out into the wilderness without a moment’s notice. Granted, it gets old after four or five days, but I know I will miss it. Made of only wheat and water and baked for less than seven minutes, it’s not a food for the gluten-sensitive. Sure, I could order an expensive box of gluten-free matzo online, but it wouldn’t be made of wheat and therefore wouldn’t satisfy the ritual requirement of the mitzvah. So what’s the point?
At the Seder, we eat many traditional foods, including a green vegetable (always celery in my family) dipped in salt water, super hot horseradish, and the delicious haroseth (apples and walnuts chopped up fine, seasoned with cinnamon and a dollop of grape wine). We drink four cups of wine or grape juice. And then there is the dinner, which at my parents’ house always included hard boiled eggs (dipped in the salt water left over from the celery), chicken soup with matzo ball dumplings, gefilte fish (cold fish patties with salty fish jelly), homemade borscht (beet soup, usually served cold) and then meat, potatoes, carrots and dessert. My mom usually served homemade applesauce before we put the tea on to boil and broke out the honey cake and coconut macaroons. It’s hard to leave a Seder without being utterly stuffed.
Of course, as a vegan, I no longer eat most of these things. And being gluten-free clearly does not help the situation. Traditionally, on Passover we eat no bread, corn, rice, cereal, pasta, legumes or anything that might become leavened. This means no corn, including any prepared item containing corn syrup. It means no beans, including soybeans, which means no tofu. In other words, most of my vegan protein sources are off-limits for the next eight days. Most Passover desserts contain dairy, eggs or both, so those are out for vegans. It makes an already difficult holiday just this side of bearable.
So what do observant Jews eat during Passover? Lots of meat and fish, lots of eggs and lots of dairy. Good luck, vegans. We do eat fruit and some types of vegetables. In my case, I go through many pounds of potatoes and carrots, plus some eggplant, zucchini, spinach, broccoli and mushrooms, and lots of salad. My favorite fake burgers, made of pea protein, are out. So is my fake cheese and anything made with vinegar (think mustard, salad dressing, pickles, olives, hot sauce). I flavor everything with black pepper, garlic and lemon. I eat lots of plums, apples, bananas and citrus.
In the old days, my Passover breakfast might be cottage cheese with fruit and matzo with cream cheese or fried eggs or matzo brei (pieces of matzo dipped in egg and fried). Now, it’s potatoes. In the old days, my Passover lunch would typically involve tuna on buttered matzo and hard boiled eggs with maybe a slice or two of tomato. Now, it’s potatoes. Maybe with some carrots or plain salad with lemon. Very boring and largely protein-free. I try to remember to eat spinach or broccoli each day, as they each contain a small amount of protein.
My mother has always referred to Passover as “a hard holiday.” However, the difficulties are tempered by many delicious traditional foods and lots of Passover sweets. None of those benefits accrue to those eating a vegan, gluten-free diet. True, you can be creative, particularly if you cook. I don’t. I am highly fortunate that my wife is willing to boil pounds of potatoes and roast vegetables in the oven for me.
And yet here I am, with Passover not yet begun, already looking forward to the holiday being over. I suppose I should look at the bright side. Perhaps I will gain an improved perspective on the hardships faced by my ancestors who, having escaped slavery due to the Lord splitting the Red Sea, wandered in the desert for forty years.
Eight days seems mighty reasonable by comparison.
We’re just a couple of weeks away from Passover and eight days of matzo, but I’m still thinking about Purim, now a few weeks in the rear view mirror.
Several years ago, not long after I began writing this blog, I marveled at my amazing good fortune at having hamantashen show up in the break room at work around Purim time. I had been craving these little jam-filled triangular cookies, probably owing more to nostalgia than to their flavor. But there I was, working out in the desert, feeling exiled to the Diaspora as only a Jew can.
I’m fairly sure I was the only Jew in our little Colorado River town, and the last thing I expected was that anyone would have ever heard of hamantashen, much less have known where to get some. I knew I could find something resembling the prune, apricot or cherry filled treats that I associated with the reading of the biblical Book of Esther each spring, if only I had the will to make the four-hour round trip to Palm Springs or the five-hour drive to Phoenix and back. Granted, they wouldn’t be the same as the buttery pastries I remember from Pakula’s Bakery, now long gone mainstay of my hometown of Spring Valley, New York, but any facsimile would do in a pinch. And I felt like pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming when a package of hamantashen showed up on the round table in our break room. As if out of thin air, an answer to prayer, were they really there? Yes, I answered with the first taste. Supermarket variety, to be sure, but it felt like a care package from home, shlach manot. They turned out to be a gift to the staff from a former manager, now retired, who knew nothing of Purim when she picked up some cookies at a supermarket over in Indio. It felt like nothing short of a Purim miracle.
Here in Sacramento, hamantashen are available at several retail stores. And yet the irony is that, this Purim, I tasted none. As it turned out, there are things other than miles that would distance me from hamantashen. The bottom line is that when you’re vegan, gluten-free and have to watch your sugar intake, special holiday foods cannot be taken for granted, even when they are readily available.
I pondered whether, with the right ingredients and a bit of ingenuity, it might be possible to create hamantashen that would satisfy my food limitations. Vegan margarine could easily substitute for butter, and a little oil or applesauce for an egg. There are plenty of artificial sweeteners out there. But what of the flour? Could hamantashen be made of rice flour, almond flour or amaranth?
Yes! Turns out that, a fee years back, April Peveteaux over at Gluten is My Bitch posted a yummy-looking recipe for gluten-free, dairy-free hamantashen. Sub applesauce for the eggs, bring out the Sweet ‘N Low or Splenda, use sugar-free jam for the filling, and I would venture to say we’re there. I don’t bake, but I hope someone will try it out and let me know whether it’s worth the effort.
I found another such recipe courtesy of Lisa Rose at realfoodkosher.com. She suggests using a combination of rice and almond flour and substituting coconut oil for butter.
Anyone want to make me some hamantashen? Must be gluten-free and vegan. I should have asked my mother-in-law. She made me a batch a few years ago and they were some of the best I’ve ever eaten.
Short of homemade, however, I suppose these are my favorites, if only because I don’t have to prepare them. At about a dollar an ounce, the price seems fairly reasonable. The only time I ever ordered hamantashen through the mail, they came mostly broken, including more crumbs than I knew what to do with. But those were “fresh” bakery-style, not packaged, so I suppose the result was to be expected.
I guess there’s not too much that you can’t buy online these days. Maybe next year, eh?
Lobby of the Marriott Convention Center, Riverside, California
Vegan on the Road
A perpetual concern of travelers everywhere is what to do for breakfast. Lack of planning on the part of the traveler is common, and the quality of the traveler’s experience is thus largely in the hands of one’s innkeeper. Unless you’re staying at a “bed and breakfast,” chances are better than average that you will be in for something inadequate, disgusting or, if you’re particularly unfortunate, both.
About the time you open your eyes and realize that you are not at home in the comfort of your own bed, but in a hotel room in a strange city, you will hear your stomach rumbling and you will begin to wonder where sustenance is to be had. If, at check-in, you spied a sign at the front desk indicating “morning coffee available in lobby,” you know you are at the mercy of what’s available nearby. This is when one’s stomach expresses the fervent wish that the local amenities extend beyond microwaving a pre-packaged burrito from 7-11.
We road warriors are dedicated to the truth that there is much work to be done and that such work must be fueled by some form of morning sustenance beyond mere caffeine.
My employer has informed me that I am not permitted to seek reimbursement for the cost of my morning meal if breakfast comes free with the room, even if it is a “continental breakfast” consisting of coffee and donuts. The fact that I am unable to partake of either of the aforementioned delicacies does not appear to sway company policy in my direction. Thus, I am better off staying the night in accommodations that blithely ignore their guests’ need for food in the A.M.
One way to assure morning prandial satisfaction is to bring one’s own food. This is an attractive option for those with special needs, such as my fellow vegan and gluten-free eaters. The success of such plan, however, is largely dependent on the presence of a refrigerator and microwave in one’s hotel room. While such amenities are common these days (at least in North America), they are by no means universal. In fact, may I suggest that the likelihood of finding food storage and preparation facilities located in one’s guest room is inversely proportional to the quality of the hotel? One is more likely to find a micro and fridge in Room 108 at Motel 6 than in a 20th floor suite at the Hilton. Then again, who wants to bring one’s own food when local culinary delights await?
Lesson learned: When making reservations for business travel, be sure to order a refrigerator and microwave rather than waiting until check-in and hoping for the best. That is, unless you want to end up like me, with a bagful of hard potatoes that you can’t cook.
I do have certain gluten-free vegan coping mechanisms that I use on the road. Everywhere I go, I search for Thai restaurants. This is not because I’m crazy about Asian food, but because most Thai restaurants offer at least a few dishes that can be prepared both vegan and gluten-free. Pad se ew, please. No meat, just tofu, no egg, no fish sauce, no soy sauce. Those are real, gluten-free rice noodles, right? Not so hot that I turn into a fire-breathing dragon, please.
As it is not my habit to eat Thai food for breakfast, however (even if there were any Thai restaurants open at that hour), I generally look for a place where I can find some fruit. Now, my habitual breakfast at home is either coconut milk yogurt with banana and raisins or a “protein bowl” (garbanzos and tofu). But I challenge you to find an American restaurant serving such delights at seven in the morning. I frequently end up throwing a banana, a slice of gluten-free millet bread and a bottle of water into a bag as I hurry out the hotel door to an early meeting. I hope to cadge a cup of tea at the meeting venue, but I am seldom so lucky in this coffee-devoted nation of ours.
As a case in point, a few days ago I was in Los Angeles. After a night in a motel in a seedy area of town marked by the repetitive wailing of car alarms and sirens, I walked into a meeting and was surprised by a breakfast spread just waiting for the participants to dig in. The viands consisted of turkey, ham, cheeses and rolls to make sandwiches, assorted muffins and, of course, coffee. (Query: Who the heck eats such crap at eight o’clock in the blessed morning? When I asked this of my mother, she replied: “A farmer.”). Honestly, it’s such a ray of sunshine to be presented with all the lovely comestibles that a gluten-free vegan would be delighted to encounter. And, of course, not a cup of tea in sight. I sighed and dug in my bag for my banana and millet bread.
Here at the Marriott Convention Center in Riverside, California, one evening I wistfully reviewed the room service breakfast menu and its checkboxes and found the usual variety of egg dishes, meat and cereal. When completed and hung on the door knob, a hot breakfast would appear, as if by magic, during the 15-minute interval of the guest’s choice (6 to 11 am). And, just as magically, $15 to $18 per person would be added to the guest’s hotel bill. Perhaps, I wondered, if I closed my eyes, recited an incantation and wished upon a star, the menu would magically be altered to include berries with almond milk or a breakfast sandwich of soy cheese and grilled tomatoes on rice bread. Sigh. In some alternate universe, perhaps.
Then a funny thing happened. While I leafed through the hotel’s amenities brochure and noticed the availability of a breakfast buffet in the lobby restaurant for the princely price of $19 per person, my wife attempted in vain to get the flat screen TV to work. Not being wealthy, I couldn’t imagine spending nearly $40 (plus tip) for my wife and I to have breakfast. After all, my employer allows me to expense the grand sum of seven dollars for my morning meal. Perhaps I do inhabit an alternate universe after all.
I phoned the front desk to report that the telly was on the fritz. The staff member on duty apologized and sent up a technician. He messed around with the thing but had no more success than we did. After he went off to contact the hotel’s internet service provider, my wife called the front desk again to ask about checkout time. The same chirpy staff lady asked whether our TV had been repaired. When we assured her that it had not been, she offered to have us change rooms. No need, said my wife. We were heading off to sleep anyway. Apologizing once more, the desk clerk offered us two free breakfast buffets for our trouble. Hallelujah! Perhaps my awkward abracadabras worked the right spell after all.
Visiting Riverside is always a slightly strange experience for me, tinged with more than a bit of déjà vu. My former employer was based in Riverside and, even though my work location was a three-hour drive east, out in the desert, I had to come into town two or three times each year for meetings. Ironically, now that I work in northern California, I find myself still doing the same (although it’s a six-hour drive each way from Sacramento).
My former employer always put me up a few blocks away at the Mission Inn, deemed by many to be a premiere accommodation due to its historic setting and the ghosts of the past that some say continue to inhabit its walkways and guest rooms. Personally, I never cared for it, finding the atmosphere dark, drafty and just a wee bit pretentious, as might be expected of some English countryside manor with a 17th or 18th century pedigree.
While the quaintness, antiques and Spanish architecture of Mission Inn appeal to many, I much prefer the modern amenities offered by the Marriott. While the venue levies separate charges for most of these, those in the know are able to take advantage of the broad leeway given staff to satisfy guests. In other words, many of the fees can be waived if you just ask (particularly if you mention that you’ve stayed with them before and that your employer has certain expectations in regard to costs). Not only did we have $25 in wifi connection charges waived (“we still have to work, you know”), we also obtained free parking and an upgrade that allowed us access to the 12th floor concierge lounge (where we watched the Cubs and Indians duke it out on a big screen TV back in September). Oh, and about that concierge lounge: They serve juice and pastries in the morning and appetizers in the evening. Appetizers? Try sushi, curry, salad and desserts. Who needs dinner? As a vegan GFer, I could chow down on raw veggies, hummus and fresh fruit.
Breakfast buffet at the Riverside Marriott
Which brings me to the $40 breakfast buffet for two that we were comped. Although it was a weekday, a cook was preparing omelettes to order. There were scrambled eggs, boiled brown eggs and several of my wife’s favorite breakfast items, including bacon, sausage, yogurt and bread and English muffins for toasting. GF vegan? I chowed down on oatmeal with raisins, potatoes and fresh fruit (cantaloupe, honeydew, pineapple and watermelon). They even had almond milk on hand for my tea, a rarity on the road. The staff was so accommodating that I wonder whether they would have sent out to Whole Foods or Sprouts had I asked for gluten-free millet bread.
My fellow breakfasters ranged from men discussing football and billion-dollar deals to an older couple traveling with a squirming three year old who was Face Timing the folks back home. “Behave,” I heard her mom warn from halfway across the room (and, likely as not, from halfway across the country). “Don’t cause Grandma any trouble.”
Vegan on the Road
A fairly ordinary truck stop at the edge of the interstate gets a musical makeover.
Among the first things I notice in a restaurant or other retail establishment is the quality (or lack thereof) of the recorded background music piped in through the speakers tucked into the ceilings. At the TA Truckstop on Highway 33 at the I-5 exit here in Merced County, central California, the vibe is decidedly 1970s, presumably to appeal to aging baby boomers such as myself. Represented were Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, Mungo Jerry, Bad Company, Roberta Flack, Billy Joel, B.J. Stevenson, Chicago, Styx, Al Stewart, Abba, Linda Ronstadt, Steely Dan and, of course, the Pauls (McCartney and Simon). We were in there about an hour and a half, my wife working on her Thinkpad and me messing around on my phone, and we never heard the same song twice. This was a little different than our last truck stop experience, in Reno, where we made only a short visit and still managed to hear Vanessa Carlton’s “I’m Only Happy When It Rains” four times.
The kitschy music theme of the dining room seemed like it belonged in Gatlinburg or Branson or somewhere. There were fake guitar sculptures and framed photos of recording artists on the walls, giant G clef and music notes above the salad bar and plaques in the booths featuring large type lyrics of a smorgasbord of eras, including songs made famous by Louis Armstrong, Lynyrd Skynyrd, the Righteous Brothers, Judy Garland, the Andrews Sisters and Hank Williams. Snowflake mobiles dangling from the ceiling were probably meant to evoke wintertime, but still seemed like bedraggled refugees from some tacky Christmas display. I suppose this should come as no surprise, considering that the truck stop Christmas tree was still up in the lobby, repurposed for the remainder of the winter season by the addition of red paper hearts along the fronds and a large Love sign at the top, where the star of Bethlehem or an angel blowing alleluias on a trumpet should be.
The last time I was here was more than three years ago, when I had a go-round with an impatient cleaning lady. Neither of us spoke the other’s language very well. I wasn’t yet aware that I am gluten intolerant, and it may have been a good thing for both of us that I didn’t know how to say “diarrhea” in Spanish.
Santa Nella is a convenient rest stop between northern and southern California, but we usually patronize Pea Soup Andersen’s, the faux-Danish overpriced tourist trap with the windmill, just across the road. However, when we last made this trip, about four months ago, I was inadvertently glutened by a seemingly safe food item I consumed over there. The opportunity to avoid that and the overpriced tourist schlock led us to try our luck with the truckers.
Even a gluten-free vegan can be relatively happy at a truck stop, particularly if you’re willing to “fudge” a bit, as I tend to do when I’m on the road. These days, I find that I can tolerate a small amount of dairy or egg that may be hidden in restaurant food a lot better than even a little bit of wheat. My body is still revolting from an uncharacteristically stupid food decision I made a few days ago. Let’s just say that it MIGHT have had something to do with a birthday and a chocolate cake. Pain!
When I’m on the road, a salad bar is a sight for sore eyes. In San José last week, we walked into a tiny Italian restaurant that looked and smelled just like one of the mouth wateringly wonderful family-run holes in the wall on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. Finding no gluten-free pasta or pizza crust, we walked right out and headed across the street to a steak house where, my wife assured me via a visit to its website on her phone, a salad bar awaited my delectation.
Disappointment greeted me. No salad bar!
It sounds like the opening of a bad joke. “A vegan walks into a steak house…” But as every vegan traveler knows, steak houses do have one good thing going for them (if you can grit your teeth and overlook the bloody cow carcasses): Baked potatoes. So there we were at dinnertime in a steak house, with my wife choosing a French toast breakfast and me settling for a dish of salad and a baked potato. We are a strange pair.
Salad bar at the Santa Nella truck stop
Here at the truck stop, it is still early in the day and everything on the salad bar looks fresh, even the melons and pineapple. I load up on beans for protein and grab some taters from the breakfast buffet. Lucky me showed up just as the staff was switching over to the lunch buffet, which provided me with carrots, squash and rice. I ate my fill, then headed out to the car and reclined the seat in preparation for an hour’s nap.
It was my wife’s turn to drive.