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While the Soup Simmers

Evelyn Herwitz · April 11, 2017 · 2 Comments

I’m writing on Sunday night, as the Egyptian potato soup simmers on the stove and our community radio station plays a Middle Eastern mix. I’ve been cooking all day for our Monday night Passover seder, and I’m feeling good. A lot better than I anticipated this morning, when I woke with pain in my ulcers, an aching foot and one thought: How am I going to get through the cooking marathon today?

I groused at Al. I rubbed my temples. I studied the long list of fruits and vegetables that I needed to buy before lunch and realized I’d forgotten to ask Al to pick up one key ingredient from the kosher market in Brookline (an hour’s drive from home) several weeks ago.

He suggested checking the Passover aisle at our local supermarket, just in case they had those kosher-for-Passover hearts of palm. I agreed, then thought of an alternative in case they didn’t. I knew Al stood ready to serve as sous-chef, as need, for all the chopping and peeling ahead. Time to dive in.

To my astonishment, when I got to the store, the Passover aisle was still well-stocked, including hearts of palm—three cans, even. I moved on to the second supermarket and filled my cart with fresh strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, bananas, a mango, avocados, cauliflowers, leeks, romaine lettuce, potatoes, beets, onions, garlic, celery, parsley, asparagus, baby spinach, eggplants. At the check-out, the cashier admired my choices and told me how much he loves vegetables (except eggplants). I told him how to enjoy beets in a salad (add gorgonzola and toasted walnuts).

By the time I got back home, Al had switched over our kitchen to all of our Passover dishes—the culmination of several days of cleaning and preparation. We went out for a quick lunch, and then I began cooking in earnest. The night before, I’d already started the pickled salmon, which marinates for a couple of days. Next up was curried eggplant. I was able to do all the peeling and chopping myself while Al worked on the yard.

Then came the Egyptian haroset, a mixture of dates, golden raisins, ground almonds and sugar syrup. Only one problem: when I placed the mixture in my little Passover food processor, it wouldn’t turn on. I tried another electrical outlet. No go. I asked Al to try it. Maybe I hadn’t aligned it properly. Zip. Four o’clock in the afternoon, and it was time for another run to Target.

I opted for an immersion blender and picked up a few other cooking items to make life easier for the rest of the week. Before we left for dinner, the haroset was well blended, cooked to perfection and chilling in the refrigerator.

By 7:30, I was back in the kitchen, separating nine eggs for the apricot sponge cake and cursing at the little pieces of eggshell that had dropped into the whites. But I persisted. Al helped me fold the meringue into the batter, the one part of the recipe I can no longer do.

Now the sponge cake rests upside down in its tube pan, cooling overnight. The asparagus are happily plumped with water, standing tall in their pan until it’s time to steam them tomorrow afternoon. The potatoes and leeks and celery and garlic and turmeric, salt, pepper, bay leaf and water have finished simmering in the time it took me to write, and the lovely mix is now cooling in the 70-year-old white enamelware that was once my mother-in-law’s Passover soup pot. Just need to add the fresh lemon juice before serving.

All that’s left for tomorrow are the spinach-cheese patties, the avocado-tomato-hearts-of-palm-pesto salad, the roasted cauliflower, the boiled eggs and the seder plate. That’s the easy stuff.

The prospect of cooking for Passover, with my once-a-year set of dishes, the crazy schedule, and the inevitable stuff that goes wrong, always overwhelms—especially because the holiday falls in the spring, when my ulcers are at their worst. But somehow, it always works out. And tastes great. And provides a beautiful setting for our seder. This year, more than ever, I am grateful that I can still make a splendid feast for family and friends, and focus on what really matters: what it means to be free.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com.

Spring Tease

Evelyn Herwitz · March 28, 2017 · 1 Comment

I bought a bouquet of Irish daffodils on Friday, three bunches of slender stalks with buds barely open. By Sunday, they had bloomed, a vase of sunshine in our dining room. Outside, snow still covered the ground. I bundled up in my long winter coat, wool hat, scarf and mittens to brave the damp chill for a half-hour walk around the neighborhood. Winter is clinging, white-knuckled, to Central New England. It’s high time to let go.

In some ways, the spring-masquerading-like-February makes me feel like a bear that is groggy, awakening from a long winter’s hybernation. My finger ulcers are simply not healing, and they smart when I change bandages twice a day. My metabolism feels sluggish from the cold. It’s hard for me to get going in the morning, when the sunlight spells spring but the temperature remains in denial. I really had to force myself out the door on Sunday, but I was glad for the reward of a cleared mind.

But winter cannot supress spring forever. As I walked, I noticed a misting of pale green about some trees. The Callery pear in front of our house has white buds, too. Near the melting edges of snow, tender green blades of grass poke skyward. The earth smells muddy and ripe.

There is birdsong, too. On Sunday, beneath overcast skies, the crows dominated. But the day before, as I walked up the street, dozens of melodies filled the air. Exuberant birds trilled, tweeted, cooed. I wondered what they were saying to one another, and I was glad for their company.

So, I await warmer weather with impatience, yet reassured that nature’s rhythms prevail. Until the snow melts, I’ll fill my vases with daffodils and let the sunshine in.

Guilty Pleasures

Evelyn Herwitz · February 28, 2017 · 1 Comment

That old saw about New England weather—just wait a minute, it will change—holds true now more than ever. After what seemed like an onslaught of snow and ice, we suddenly were treated to a major thaw. Temperatures last week rose to the high 60’s. Only lumps and clumps of snow remain, blackened by car exhaust and grit. Friday afternoon, I went food shopping wearing just a sweater to keep me warm.

We’re back to seasonable 40’s for a few days, then more balmy temperatures. Some find this anxiety-provoking. Record-breaking warmth is more evidence that climate change is real. I worry about this, too. News reports are frightening: severe drought in some parts of the world versus severe flooding elsewhere, melting ice caps, reduced ocean oxygen levels, bleached coral reefs, declining biodiversity, extreme storms—how will our precious planet survive?

But I must admit, on a purely personal, very selfish level—I really enjoy the warmer weather. I can’t help it. I just feel so much better when the temperature goes above 60 degrees Fahrenheit. My whole body relaxes. My ulcers heal. And I don’t have to go anywhere beyond my front door.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe we must do everything possible to slow the trend of global warming. There is far too much reliable scientific evidence that without serious efforts to reduce human production of greenhouse gasses, the ice caps will continue to melt, ocean levels will continue to rise, too many species will die before they can adapt to rapid climate change, food production will be disrupted . . . the list of dislocation and natural disasters goes on and on.

Knowing all that, doing my best to recycle and reduce my carbon footprint and support public policy that promotes responsible environmental stewardship . . . I still can’t help it. I won’t go so far as to wish for oceanfront property in Central Massachusetts. But I’ll take a warm day in February over ice and snow, any time.

Image Credit: Miriams-Fotos

In 3-2-1

Evelyn Herwitz · February 7, 2017 · 2 Comments

I stay up way too late most nights watching late night comedians. Since we live on the East Coast, this means I’m getting to bed around midnight. My evening routine is prolonged by tending to all the bandages on my fingers—up to six ulcers at present, plus one on my left ankle—so my excuse is that the shows keep me company while I’m taking care of my hands. But in all honesty, I rely on satire to keep my sanity.

My favorite is Stephen Colbert. Al’s, too. So when Al suggested that we mark our anniversary this year by a trip to NYC to see a live taping of The Late Show, I readily agreed. We were married in December 32 years ago, but due to scheduling conflicts, our first opportunity to go was last week.

And go, we did. We decided to make a mini vacation of it, booking a four star hotel on Park Avenue at a January discount, scoring half-price tickets to a Sunday afternoon off-Broadway show, enjoying great food and wonderful art museums on Monday and Tuesday. But the highlight of the trip was our pilgrimage to the Ed Sullivan Theatre for Colbert on Monday afternoon.

Now, as children of the ’60s, it was exciting enough to be at the very spot where the Beatles made their American debut. The theatre features architectural filagree that gives it a period flare. It’s located on Broadway between West 53rd and 54th Streets–the latter also designated as Señor Wences Way, a throwback to that wonderful, corny feature act on the Ed Sullivan Show that we loved as kids.

But it was also fun just to be with other Colbert fans as we waited outside, joking and speculating about the program as we stamped our feet and huddled against the cold. The priority ticket line formed at 3:00 p.m. We arrived shortly after and quickly made our way through the check-in, staffed by friendly red-jacketed twenty-somethings armed with iPads and headphones, who made occasional announcements about what to do and where to go. A nice couple offered to take our picture in front of the marquee, and we returned the favor.

By 3:45, rehearsal was over and we were finally allowed to enter the warm theatre lobby. More waiting and waiting in a long, snaking line beneath large TV monitors playing excerpts from previous shows, though the sound was muted. From time to time, one of the staff would fill us in on next steps and rules: turn off all cell phones, no food allowed in the studio theatre, and—around 4:30—now’s the time to use the bathroom, because once you’re seated, there are no bathroom breaks.

Wait, what? I’d figured that, if I had to go, I’d be able to do so during a commercial. But, no, only if it was an emergency—and no guarantee you could be reseated. Now, this was potentially a major issue for me. I can no longer go long stretches without a trip to the bathroom. My bladder just doesn’t empty efficiently. So I joined a line of other women, waiting for a stall in the Ladies’ Room, and hoped I could squeeze out the last drop. Fortunately, we’d eaten lunch about two hours earlier, and I hadn’t had much to drink.

Back in line, I distracted myself by chatting with some of our neighbors, flexing my ankles and feeling grateful that I was wearing compression knee socks, so that my feet wouldn’t swell from all the standing around. Finally, shortly after 5:00, it was time to be seated. The red jackets were very experienced at crowd control, and we efficiently filed into the main floor. Lo and behold, the center section was full, so Al and I found ourselves guided toward the third row of the right-hand section, directly in front of Jon Batiste’s Steinway concert grand piano. Al was in heaven.

Here we were, with a great view of the Late Show set, so familiar from our TV at home. We gawked and chatted with our seat mates (mine was a Lutheran pastor from Saskatchewan, here with friends for her first visit to NYC), listened to more instructions about our role as audience (enthusiasm and energy are essential for the performers as well as the 2.5 million folks watching later tonight), practiced standing and cheering, warmed up to the warm-up comic, clapped and bopped to the outstanding jazz of Jon Batiste and Stay Human, and then, finally, screamed our heads off, just like those Beatles fans fifty years ago, when Stephen Colbert ran out on stage to greet us.

He was genuinely warm in person, very down-to-earth, as he fielded a few questions from the audience with his quick, dry wit. Then it was time for the taping to begin. We could watch the cold open on the video monitors, then Colbert ran out on stage again, this time as part of the show. The boom camera swept the audience, and we were off to the races.

Time zipped by. There was a surreal quality to the experience, watching Colbert perform for the four cameras that surrounded him in his opening monologue, even as he fed off our energy. There was a pause for him to switch from his suit jacket to a Dad sweater for a skit with guest Leslie Mann, another pause because one of the lights wasn’t working properly, casting a shadow on the couch where they were to sit. “The Russians must have hacked our set,” he quipped.

The band played on during commercial breaks (how I wish that were the case when you watch on television–they are such amazing talents). Lewis Black and Dan Levy rounded out the program. We stood and cheered on cue (when the stage manager waved his rolled-up script in the air). Colbert’s wife made a surprise appearance to roars of approval.

And then it was over. I’d been so absorbed, I’d forgotten all about any bathroom jitters. Al and I looked at each other. We didn’t want it to end. Despite the cold, we walked all the way from Times Square back to a little Italian restaurant near our hotel, where we enjoyed a fine dinner and live piano music. Later, we watched the show again in our hotel room, to see how it was edited and, of course, to see if we made it onto the tape. And there we stood, cheering in the crowd after one of the early commercial breaks! I finished bandaging my fingers, and we went soundly to sleep.

All in all, it was a wonderful anniversary celebration—a great break, a much-needed chance to recharge, a gift of resilience. And, oh, did I mention? The Colbert tickets were free.

Oasis

Evelyn Herwitz · January 31, 2017 · 2 Comments

I’m finding it difficult to write about anything other than the chaos in the world, in our country, in my heart. So what I’m sharing today may seem odd. But we chose to immerse ourselves in art and floral arrangements at the Worcester Art Museum’s annual Flora in Winter exhibit this weekend. I’m grateful that I have the opportunity to do so. It is, indeed, a privilege.

Inspiration, courage, solutions, just finding the next step can become clearer when you give yourself the chance to find beauty in the world. I share these with you, Dear Reader, in hopes that you will find inspiration, too.

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