Vegan Blueberry Ice Cream

It looks like the camera is kaputt, so I can't take a picture of the beautiful purple vegan blueberry cheesecake ice cream that I made today. I can tell you, however, that it is quite delicious IMHO. The "parve cheesecake" flavor may not be for everyone (I haven't tried it on the guests yet), but I recommend giving the recipe a shot even if you find the idea somewhat disgusting.

The recipes on Agnes's blog are all made with soy creamer, although she suggests some alternatives here. Silk brand creamer, I recently confirmed, is nondairy even though it is labeled OU-D. I discuss the halakhic implications in this Kosher Blog post.

Now I have to leave the apartment so that I can get some work done without eating all the ice cream. Shabbat shalom.

Strawberry Shortcake, Cream On Top

"I think next week will be the last week for strawberries."

That's what the guy at the farmer's market told me today as I bagged my half gallon of berries. So, all you fellow New Englanders, get them now! Local strawberries are different from the ones from California or Florida: smaller, more delicate, and red all the way through. Of course, all you need to enjoy them is a bowl -- no, I take that back, you don't need a bowl, but you do need a napkin. At any rate, you certainly don't need extra sugar or cream. But having made and eaten my first strawberry shortcake last Friday, I don't think I'll go another summer without one. There's just nothing like strawberries and cream, let alone bright red, juicy native strawberries and freshly whipped cream with real vanilla. And, of course, shortcake. I used this buttermilk shortcake recipe, which was lovely. (I use SACO cultured buttermilk blend.) Sadly, when I went to take a picture of my last, carefully guarded shortcake, I discovered that the batteries in my camera were dead. I guess I could have run out and bought new ones, but I didn't. I just grabbed a spoon and enjoyed.

Here's my version of the recipe:

For the Shortcake:

2 cups all purpose flour
1/2 cup sugar
1 tbsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/3 cup butter, chilled and cut into pieces
3/4 cup buttermilk (or 3 tbs powdered buttermilk and 3/4 cup water)
1 tsp vanilla extract

For the Whipped Cream:

1 pint whipping cream
4 tbs sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract

1 pint strawberries, washed, hulled, and sliced

Directions:

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

Make the shortcake: Combine the dry ingredients (including powdered buttermilk, if using) in a food processor and pulse a few times to blend. Add the butter and continue to pulse until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Add the liquid ingredients and pulse until the dough comes together.

Use a 1/4 cup measuring cup or an ice cream scoop to drop dollops of dough onto a parchment-lined baking sheet. (They won't be neat.) Bake 15 minutes, or until golden.

Make the whipped cream: Combine cream, sugar, and vanilla in a large bowl and beat with an electric mixer until soft peaks form. (It will not be as stiff as commercial whipped cream.)

Just before serving, slice the shortcakes in half and top with whipped cream and strawberries. (I just put the components on the table and let my guests assemble their own.)

Yield: 10 shortcakes

Also recommended: David Lebovitz's Strawberry Frozen Yogurt (I commented on the recipe here) and strawberry cheesecake ice cream.

(Icon courtesy of A Veggie Venture)

Deconstructing Carrie

The first time I watched Sex and the City, it was at my parents' place with my sisters, who were already fans of the show. At the time, I didn't get the appeal, or how they could stand Sarah Jessica Parker's voice and the lame "musings" that were supposed to constitute Carrie Bradshaw's column. Years later, when the show was being rerun on TBS, I turned it on one Tuesday night and quickly became addicted. I think it was somewhere in the middle of season two, when the show had become wittier and the characters, who had begun as static stereotypes, had developed just enough to be somewhat sympathetic. I also discovered that Cynthia Nixon as Miranda was compelling enough to compensate for Sarah Jessica Parker as Carrie. And, like so many women, I fell in love with Steve, the gentle bartender who takes endless abuse from Miranda and keeps coming back for more.

(Warning: Minor movie spoilers ahead.)

I almost never watch movies in theaters, but when the Sex and the City movie came out, I decided to seek out some female friends to see it with, since I knew that DH would never watch it with me on Netflix. After reading this review (e-mailed to me by the very friend I was going to watch it with!), I started to worry that the movie would be two hours of everything I didn't like about Sex and the City and none of the things I did. Fortunately, I was wrong. It certainly was silly, and it had more than its share of cringe-worthy lines (particularly toward the end), but it was also funny -- occasionally hilarious -- and there were lots of great outfits, which is all that any one who's watched the show can reasonably expect.

Still, I'm a graduate student, and it's impossible for me to watch a movie like this without feeling the urge to take it apart. And what's the point of having a blog if not to indulge in this sort of thing? So here goes:

I'm sure I'm not the first to point out that Sex and the City is fundamentally a traditional romance with a veneer of sexual liberation. The "girls" (as they call themselves) are all ultimately looking for a man to settle down with (at least by the end of the series) -- preferably one who can support their shopping habits, which seem to run them several thousand dollars a spree. (It's not clear where all this money is supposed to be coming from at the outset. Miranda supposedly works eighty hours a week at a law firm, but it's hard to figure out when those hours could be to leave room for all the daytime outings and wild nights. The others are total mysteries: Charlotte runs an art gallery until she gets married, Samantha is an event planner-turned-publicist, and before her first book is published Carrie supports herself by writing a weekly sex column -- in Manhattan! It's also not clear how they manage to walk around in those shoes without ending up on crutches -- but I digress.)

The movie, like the series, is totally unapologetic in its promotion of stereotypes. These are mostly related to the women's relentless pursuit of "labels and love," but there are others: the bald lawyer Jew with the vaguely Yiddish accent; the latino womanizer; and of course, the flamboyantly gay men who always show up just long enough to offer fashion tips and comic relief. The movie also introduced a new stereotype in the person of Carrie's "assistant," an updated version of the kindly black maid. At the end of the movie she leaves the "big city" to marry a man of the appropriate race and class (and girth), and everyone lives happily ever.

Sorry if I ruined the surprise.

Anyway, like I said, I enjoyed the movie, and if you liked the series, you probably will, too. If you don't -- or if, like so many of us, you do but are a little bit embarrassed about it -- you may enjoy this:

And Now For Something Completely Different

The women of my family tend to be fairly well endowed. I guess that's why my mom sent us this article, from Slate. It begins with some familiar thoughts:

As a woman who loves sports, I've always found the concept of breasts bothersome. If all goes according to plan, they will fulfill their intended function for about three of the 70 years that I have them. The rest of the time, they alternate between getting in my way and embarrassing me.

I'm not a sports person, and I do appreciate breasts for their ornamental value, but I have to agree: they do tend to get in the way. I'm somewhat lacking in the inventive spirit, though, so it never occurred to me that breasts could be functional as well as ornamental (aside, of course, from the limited function that nature intended). Not so Adrienne So (no pun intended -- really), who not only hit on the idea of an energy-generating bra but actually ran it past "some scientists."

LaJean Lawson, a former professor of exercise science at Oregon State University, has studied breast motion since 1985 and now works as a consultant for companies like Nike to develop better sports bra designs. Lawson was enthusiastic about my idea but warned it would be tricky to pull off. You would need the right breast size and the right material, she explained, and the bra itself would have to be cleverly designed. "It's just a matter of finding the sweet spot, between reducing motion to the point where it's comfortable but still allowing enough motion to power your iPod," she said.

That was just to lighten up the mood around here. Speaking of lightening up, I recently tried making berry sorbet with agave nectar, a natural low-glycemic sweetener, in place of maple syrup. It came out well. In the process, I learned that the apple juice in the recipe is really unnecessary and that omitting it yields a better texture.

One final non-sequitur based on an e-mail from a family member. Littlest Sister sent me the following message this morning:

I was wondering if you knew of any gooey parve cake recipes (it's my friend Wendy's birthday on Sunday and her roommate needs one)Maybe you could make a blog post about it. Say it's a special request. You need to put something new up there anyway.

"Parve" and "gooey" are a tough combination, but a friend of mine did make a very delicious, rich parve chocolate cake for her birthday, and it turned out to be based on this recipe. She just substituted soy milk for the milk in both the cake and the frosting. It was totally undetectable.

If you want something really gooey, you can make a parve flourless chocolate cake simply by substituting margarine for the butter. This is a good recipe. The biggest challenge is finding high-quality parve chocolate. I like Scharffen Berger, but it's pretty expensive and mostly sold at specialty stores.

That's all for tonight. There are a few more posts in the works, but I may not get around to publishing them until, say, sometime around the battle of Gog and Magog. I'll try, though.

This Post is Depressing

Don't say I didn't warn you.

A friend of mine keeps asking why I haven't blogged for so long. As usual, there are a variety of reasons. One of those reasons is Isaac. It's hard to think of blogging and not writing about something that occupies my thoughts so often. At the same time, I know that there's no way to write about Isaac's death without being self-absorbed (if I write about my own feelings) or trite (if I write about it from any other perspective). And I don't feel like eulogizing Isaac any more, at least right now, as much as he deserves it. There have been so many eulogies.

I don't want to stop blogging forever, though, so here it is: one long, trite, self-absorbed post. After this I'll get back to blogging recipes and destroying Judaism or whatever I usually do.

When I first read this post, I was still in a state of deep mourning. My initial thought was, How can she even compare Isaac's death to the attack on Mercaz HaRav? How can anyone compare it to anything? Nothing will ever be the same now. The world has come to an end!

Of course, it didn't take me long to realize that my line of thought was completely illogical. If the world ended when Isaac was hit by that truck, eight worlds ended when those shots were fired in Jerusalem. Those kids have families and friends who love them, too. They had their whole lives ahead of them.

The fact is, the world ends every day. And yet it doesn't. Two weeks after Isaac's funeral, DH and I went to the wedding of some friends, a couple we've known about as long as we've known Isaac and Margot -- a couple that's just as happy and loving and perfect for each other as Isaac and Margot were. I didn't want to go at first (although I knew I would anyway). I didn't think I could be happy for them. The whole thing just seemed so ridiculous and random and unfair. After two weeks, though, while I was still sad, still thinking about Isaac nearly all the time, I was able to be happy for my other friends, too. There is a time to mourn and a time to dance, as the old wisdom goes. This was a time to dance, and I danced until I was exhausted. Life is too short and uncertain not to be happy at a wedding.

One of the unexpected effects that Isaac's loss has had on me is that it's actually become easier to watch the news. I used to often feel torn when I heard reports of tragedies -- torn between the horror and sadness that I thought I should feel (and sometimes did) and the knowledge that I had to get on with whatever I was doing, and that no one person can or should feel the pain of the world. And of course, there was always the urge to change the channel and watch Law & Order reruns or cartoons. It's different now. I feel like I've internalized the great sadness of it all -- not that I've experienced, God forbid, the loss of a parent or a child or spouse, let alone the whole world I know, just that I understand loss and tragedy in a way that I didn't before. Well enough, if I may say so. I no longer have that notion that I should sympathize with the families of fallen soldiers or the victims of natural disasters and terrorist attacks. I get it. The world has ended again. And I still have to finish making dinner.

Today was Memorial Day, with its strange American custom of honoring the dead with sales and barbecues. (Not that Americans are unique in this respect. Jews commemorate shloshim and yahrzeit with food and try to comfort mourners with endless boxes of rugelach. I guess we still have to eat.) I spent much of this morning doing housework with CNN in the background, and the news stories were punctuated with messages from military families about loved ones they recently lost. It's terribly sad, but after all, it's no one I know. I had laundry to fold, exams to grade.

I know that it will be a long time before Isaac's parents and sister and soulmate are able to "change the channel" and focus on ordinary things, let alone be happy at a wedding. They will probably never be where I am now, generally enjoying life in spite of the sadness. The same is true, of course, for so many whose loved ones have been cut down before their time. But even for them, the sun will keep rising every morning, and life will go on. For whatever it's worth (and I do realize that it isn't much, if anything), my thoughts are with them today, wishing them strength.

Thank You for Not Being A Jerk

It's hard to know how to deal with others' loss. Everyone grieves differently, and words that one person finds comforting can seem insensitive to someone else. I've definitely been insensitive to mourners in the past. But there are some things that everyone should know not to do:

When a friend loses a loved one, don't send sympathy form letters of the variety that a CEO might send to an employee.

When a young person loses an intended life partner, don't say, "well, you're still young," and start pointing out attractive members of the opposite sex.

When a parent loses a child, don't tell him or her that suffering is spiritually rewarding or a sign of God's love.

When someone loses a grandparent, don't assume that it's no big deal because you're not close with your grandparents, or because grandparents are old and are supposed to die, anyway.

Don't talk during Mourner's Kaddish. It may just be another kaddish to you, but people saying Mourner's Kaddish are in mourning, and they deserve consideration while they remember their loved ones.

Don't make assumptions about people's beliefs about God, angels, and the afterlife, and definitely don't try to push your beliefs on those who are in mourning. It's not the time.

A Simple Jew

An anonymous commentator calling himself "The Pachad Yitzchak" wrote the following in response to my last post:

I don't know what simply a Jew is, except a guy in a brown fedora at the back of a Young Israel at 11:00 on Shabbes. Apart from that, simple Judaism is only for the most engaged and ideologically complicated people.

This Pachad Yitzchak (I don't think he would mind your knowing) was Isaac Meyers, a Harvard doctoral student who was killed by a grocery truck last monday on his way to an early morning shiva minyan. The line about the guy in the brown fedora (which I didn't pick up on at the time) was a reference to a song called "A Simple Jew" that Isaac wrote for his band, the Rothchilds ("the plutocrats of pop").*

Isaac wasn't the kind of "simple Jew" described in his song. His understanding of Judaism was broad and deep and sophisticated, and, as you can tell from his songs, he also had a sense of humor about it. In other ways, though, Isaac was as simple and straightforward as they come. He never hesitated to do what he thought was right, and he always did it in the most understated way. There's no way to even begin to describe what we lost with his passing.

At Isaac's funeral, the presiding rabbi, Jeremy Kalmanofsky, read a poem by Chaim Nachman Bialik that I thought captured the situation as well as any human words possibly could. Afterward, I searched for it on the Internet and found it here. You really must read it in Hebrew if you can; the translation doesn't measure up. Isaac could have written a better one — he had a great sensitivity for these things. But he's not here.

*You can hear "A Simple Jew" and other Rothchilds recordings here.