Category: Culture

Culture, Food, Food allergies, Survivalism

Classified: In need of better ice cream in Israel

Jen

I made my own ice cream last night.

I did this out of despair.

I do not like store bought Israeli ice cream. It’s awful. Even the halavi (dairy) ice cream (as opposed to the soy-based parve) is gross.

A complete waste of calories, if you care about that kind of thing.

I don’t.

I just want some decent ice cream every now and again.

For a while, I would splurge on the Ben & Jerry’s you can find occasionally in the supermarket, but the last five times I bought it, I opened the carton to find the ice cream melted and refrozen into an icy gelatinous mess. So, in addition to having no ice cream to satisfy my already salivating glands, I had to plan a trip to Shufersal to get my 48 shekels back.

Not easy when you live in the middle of nowhere.

Grrrr.

I exaggerate. I live in the outskirts, but Israel is not a third world nation.

We do have high-falutin “Italian ice cream parlors.” However, I have no taste for Leggenda or Dr. Lek (which is spelled the same as Dr. Lick, but is apparently pronounced Dr. Lek, go figure) or any of these gelato type places that charge you 18 shekels for a cone (that’s $5, my US friends).

Even if they didn’t charge so much, I can’t go there with my nut allergic kid.  I found a peanut in my vanilla ice cream there just the other day, which successfully proved my  theory in the company of my husband that ice cream parlors are not at all safe for nut allergic kids.

So last night, for about 6 -7 shekels (the cost of cream, milk, sugar, salt, and vanilla), I made a pint of my own vanilla ice cream following these instructions and using this recipe which totally worked.

homemade ice cream

The recipe is super easy, and while a bit time consuming, does not require an ice cream maker.

Which is quite a relief.

There’s nothing more infuriating than searching like mad for a recipe on Google, finding one, only to realize it requires some expensive piece of equipment or a brand of soup mix only found in New Zealand.

Quite the opposite with this recipe, I had everything I needed  … even the ice (which was the hardest of all the ingredients to come by in Israel).

So, finally, one ice cream discontent in Israel may now be content.

Until the container is finished.

Culture, Letting Go, Mindfulness, Modern Life, Relationships, Technology

Crazy Jen and her digital detox

Jen

In a discussion with my mother last week, I explained to her with confidence that a group of people were surely talking about me when I left the room.

“How exactly do you know that?” she asked me.

“I just do,” I replied.

“How?” she pressed.

I explained to her that in the same way she is brilliant when it comes to data analysis or number crunching, I know people and their behavior.

It’s not my paranoia, it’s my specialty.

This is why I excel in marketing and branding — you need to be hyper sensitively tuned in to emotions and able to anticipate reactions in order to predict trends and behavior.

I like to tell people — because it’s true and a little self-deprecation is still attractive on a 39 year old who looks 34 — that I am a trend spotter, not a trendsetter.

I spotted the name Hannah, and sock monkeys, and gluten free all before they became Average Joe household-familiar trends.

It’s a blessing and a curse.

The bad part about being a trend spotter, much in the same way that it’s bad to be psychic — people tend to think you’re crazy until the moment after the trend hits the Today Show.

They either don’t listen to you or roll their eyes or … talk about you behind your back, often and with more eye rolling.

The worst part? I receive little to no vindication years later when the trend is obvious. Most people, except for my cousin Jami, have all forgotten by then that crazy Jen suggested years ago that probiotics were the key to fighting depression.

As for my digital detox, I was a little late on the uptake this time.

Only days after I finished my detox — which included the elimination of my smartphone and all computer-related activities for 2 1/2 weeks except for checking personal email once a week and Facebook on my birthday — someone sent me this smart and poignant short film about our cultural obsession with digital connection. The same day, as I returned to Twitter activity, this article from Fast Company appeared in my feed about “slow design” and mentions the digital detox trend. (Not to mention silent meditation retreats — something I’ve been doing, writing about, and suffering ridicule for over the last two years! )

Maybe my trend spotting eye has blurred in my old age, or maybe — like the rest of the world — I am too tired and over-stimulated to be spotting much of anything save for my second cup of espresso.

If digital detox has become  a trend before I spotted it, so be it.

It’s good for us.

We need it.

And we need it fast.

More and more I am hearing from my friends or seeing evidence on the social media networks I somehow feel compelled to follow even though I am getting more and more tired of the content, that —

life is too fast and too hard to keep up with

Just yesterday, my poor friend on Facebook posted an urgent plea for advice:

How do you all do it? She wanted to know.

How do you all keep up with everything? Work, kids, marital bliss, friends, community, world news?

How do you all do it?

I could hear the defeated sigh that followed the last question mark.

We don’t, was my answer.

We’re suffering, I told her.

I hoped to offer her some solace, some comfort. Misery, after all, loves company.

But I don’t know how much relief company will bring. In this case, the more we see others faking it, the more “less than” we feel. And it’s so easy to fake it. It’s so easy to distract yourself from your pain and discontent.

Until it’s not.

Courtesy gawker.com
Courtesy gawker.com

During my own digital detox, which took place during a family vacation, I become hyper aware — just like the girl in the video — of all that goes on, and all that is ignored, around me.

I also became acutely aware and appreciative of my own presence in my own life.

It took only 48 hours of being off Facebook to be so thankful to be off Facebook.

To be relieved.

It took less time for me to be thankful to be off Twitter.

To not know what was going on in the news.

To not have to be witty or responsive.

To tune out the latest trends.

To tune out other people, and the details of their lives.

This may sound mean or psychopathic. Or at the very least, depressive.

Maybe it is.

But if it is, it’s a cultural disease that most of us are severely suffering from.

Most of us just don’t know it — or acknowledge it – yet. OR we’re still convincing ourselves that information access trumps burn out.

Or we think there is no way out.

The symptoms of our cultural disease come out in little ways, like my friend’s Facebook plea, or in a whispered coffee chat between young mothers, or in a verbal spar between embarrassed male colleagues, both overtired and fearful that they will never be able to catch up on their emails or please neither their bosses nor their wives.

My heart hurts for those men, and

I mourn the loss of my freedom.

Because that is what digital detox is — a gateway drug to freedom.

It’s just too expensive for my pocketbook right now and not trendy enough to be available to the masses.

I’m waiting, though.

I’m watching the Today Show headlines on Twitter, and waiting.

Because years ago, back when people were complaining that $5.99/pound was too much to be paying for apples, I was secretly shopping organic at Wild Oats in Tucson, Arizona, waiting for Walmart to catch up.

And hoping for a trend to hit.

Hoping that I wasn’t mistaken and hoping I wasn’t alone.

Community, Culture

The characters must fit the story

Jen

I almost forgot to punch out my 15-minute Friday piece until I checked my WordPress Reader and saw that the Daily Prompt today pushes us to “Go Serial.” I started going serial accidentally last week when I found myself compelled to write yet another poem about Kfar Manda, the Arab Village down the street from Hannaton, the kibbutz village in which I live.

I was in Kfar Manda because I heard from my friend on Hannaton they had a great health clinic with good doctors and lots of services the smaller clinics here in the North don’t typically have. The two clinics I normally go to were closed and I wasn’t feeling well. I didn’t want to wait until the next morning, when my doctor would return to the office.

Going to the health clinic is always a test of bravery for me here in the outskirts of this country. You never know how good the doctor’s English will be and you never know if your Hebrew will be strong enough to indicate which organ feels busted or which region needs attention.

I still don’t know how to say vagina in Hebrew.

I do now, however, after many awkward interactions, know the grownup words for peepee and poop.

It took me 6 months of living in Israel before I felt comfortable going to the doctor without my husband in attendance. But it took me 2 1/2 years of living here before I felt comfortable driving in and around Kfar Manda.

This week was the first time I drove in alone. And I only felt comfortable doing so once I saw on Google Maps that the clinic was only a few blocks from the main road. That said, Google Maps doesn’t really work in villages  Northern Israel: neither the Jewish nor the Arab Villages have street signs. And so directions “to turn left  on Peleg Street” don’t help in real time. So even though the clinic was only a few blocks in, I needed help from the locals to get me there.

By a mix of my broken Hebrew and theirs, I found my way to the clinic and was graciously supported by the Arab doctors and nurses. The only difference between this clinic and the one I normally go to was language. The promotional signs from the health plan, for instance, were in Arabic instead of Hebrew; as were the conversations between the health professionals.

My solo trip into Kfar Manda didn’t end there. I had to go for an Xray. I could have waited a few days and scheduled an appointment in Karmiel, the nearest city. But I wanted to get the Xray over with. So I asked the doctor for directions.

In typical Middle Eastern style, he pointed out the window and told me in Hebrew to walk this way, that way, and then straight, straight, straight for 50 meters and I’d see it.

I nodded and did as I was told.

Except after 45 minutes in the heat of the day trying five different versions of “this way, that way, and straight straight straight” I only found myself at a market, a pharmacy, and at a store selling curtains.

It was time to go home or talk to people.

I chose to talk to people.

7 or 8 people later, I found the hair salon whose owner pointed me to the bank whose member directed me to the restaurant that was above the Xray center.

I found it.

And in doing so, I found another way of looking at Kfar Manda.

A perspective that involved real people, not just characters in stories. Stories based in fact, yes, but stories also based in fiction. In assumptions. In racism. In fear.

Stories I had been told and stories I told myself.

And so, with personal experience, my understanding of Kfar Manda shifts.

 

Culture, Letting Go

If your smartphone jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you?

Jen

We know our smartphones make us stupider.

We know they distract us.

Confuse us.

Make us crash our cars into each other.

And keep us from having meaningful conversations with other human beings, in particular our kids, our spouses, and our friends. People, presumably, we like and want to have meaningful conversations with.

And yet, we keep using them. We keep buying faster ones, stronger ones, more multi-purpose ones.

We download apps faster than you can say “Shoot me up, Scotty.”

This isn’t news.

Nor is it news that many of us are, at the very least, conflicted about this,

But despite our conflict, we continue to use.

As a recovering control freak — I am pretty addicted to my Waze and my easy access Google, which lets me find out within thirty seconds where the nearest ER is.

We parents like our Angry Birds, so we have something to do while waiting for the doctor. We like our YouTube, so we can have a quiet meal with kids every now and again.

We really, really, really like our Instagram.

Last week, however, the battery in my smartphone died. And due to complications with my warrantee, I have been using a regular old telephone for the last week.

It’s been great.

Weird, disruptive, but great.

I know I’m not the first to notice how much of your life you get back when your smartphone dies, but I can’t help but share my awareness with you.

Without the camera on my smartphone, I just sat and watched my children play for an hour on inflatable jumping castles yesterday.

Without my instagram, I smiled inside and shared my joy with myself only … until I saw my husband later, and had to use my words, and not pictures, to describe how much fun they had.

Without my smartphone, my work day ends when my work day ends, and my work day begins when it begins.

It isn’t one long everlasting day that runs into the next one.

Without my smartphone, taunting me with a flashing light or a clever, nostalgic ring-a-ling-a-ling, my thumbs rested, for the first time in many years. And I listened to a story someone was telling me. I actually listened — to the whole thing — uninterrupted.

Our smartphones are the very physical representations of our very distracted society — a society that runs, forgets, snaps, jumps.

Only when our smartphones disappear — or worse, when tragedy strikes — are we reminded of the choices we have to make each and every second of each and every day.

We must constantly choose where to be.

Are we with our phones? Or are we with our life?

When our phones are around, most of us inevitably choose our phones.

When we don’t, because we have to focus on something or someone else, our typical first responses are irritability or confusion.

WHY ARE YOU BOTHERING ME?

WHAT?!?

HUH? WHAT DID YOU SAY? SORRY I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING.

This state of irritability or confusion is how we spend our days … our moments …

With our minds constantly stimulated, we forget we have a choice.

We forget that in every moment, we must choose.

Where to be.

With whom

With what.

Why do we forget? Because usually we don’t choose. We react.

That’s what humans do when they are over-stimulated.

Our minds have been re-trained from choice to reaction.

For the last week, my mind has been getting a work out in under stimulation.

I had to sit in the doctor’s office and look at the walls, and the people.

I had to wave to the guy riding a donkey in the middle of the road, instead of snapping his picture for posterity.

I had to watch my children … just watch them.

Mostly — I loved this week.

I cheered the death of my smartphone secretly, even though I kept bugging the technician for a date of repair.

Because I understand that it can’t be like this.

That I can’t have it both ways.

That, yes, there is a bigger choice I could make that would allow me to be more present more of the time.

But it would require giving up a lot.

In the meantime, I’m grateful for the death of my smartphone. And I’m proud of myself for realizing the gift inside this temporary loss.

Climate Changes, Community, Culture, Environment, Family, Living in Community

This is best use of social media for social good I’ve seen in a long time

Jen

#Litterati

 

Culture, Letting Go, Mindfulness, Spirituality

Ideas that spread

Jen

I love TED talks.

I love the concept.

I love the execution.

TED

As a marketing professional, I think TED talks are often brilliant examples of storytelling and I often share them with my clients to show how delivery can reel a person into a topic that might be dense or unfamiliar.

I have watched TED talks that seem to have nothing to do with my life — that are by people so foreign to me or about ideas that are a million miles away from what I think or care about.

And yet, by the end, I’m crying. Or nodding. Or shaking my head in stunned disbelief.

That’s what a good story does to you.

As a human being, I think TED talks enrich my life.

I love learning about problems I never knew existed.

And being surprised by how the solutions to those problems end up applying to my own life.

I have the TED app downloaded on my smartphone and when I remember, I will often listen to a TED talk on the drive home from work.

I hardly ever spend time browsing the videos. I choose one of the top three recommended.

Today I chose “Phil Hansen: Embrace the shake.”

I had no idea who Phil Hansen was before I watched his talk, nor did I understand the reference to the word, “shake” in the title.

But I love the word “embrace.”

embrace

It’s physical.

It’s emotional.

And this word alone in the title was enough to pique my curiosity and press play.

I’m very much into embracing. (And tips on how to do it better…)

Embracing my uncertainty.

Embracing my fear.

Embracing the new and unfamiliar.

Embracing …so that you may let go.

What Hansen suggests in his talk is that embracing our limitations actually opens us up to limitless possibilities.

I agree with him.

I won’t spoil the 10 minute talk.

Enjoy it for yourself, but be prepared to be surprised.

And to let go … of your expectations.

About the speaker.

About the talk.

About everything.

“As I destroyed each project, I was learning to let go,” Hansen says. “Let go of outcomes. Let go of failures. And let go of imperfections…”

See what happened, when he did.

Culture

Israelis don’t like rootbeer

Jen

Do you ever notice how easy and acceptable it is to stereotype your own?

And how easy and acceptable is it to find yourself up in arms when “outsiders” stereotype us?

Of course, this is human nature and true of most ethnic, religious and gender groups.

It’s the classic rule: I can talk smack about my momma, but don’t you even think about it.

I stereotype Israelis. Especially since I moved here 2 1/2 years ago.

But what’s funny is the type of stereotyping I find myself responsible for is not your classic Israel bashing.

They’re so rude/impatient/loud/demanding. They’re always up-your-butt in lines. They all carry uzis.

Those aren’t stereotypes. They’re truths! Israelis will be the first to admit (loudly, and rudely) that lines are for friarim. Pushing your way to the front is why God gave us two hands. The third one is for our uzi.

I stereotype Israelis from a place of love, like one does when making fun of one’s brother…or oneself. But I also stereotype Israelis as a study, from a place of still feeling like an “inside outter.” Like someone who thinks she is supposed to fit in, but doesn’t quite yet. And perhaps never will.

This was very obvious to me while traveling last week in the U.S. with 8 Israeli born colleagues. Though working insanely hard, we had a great time. My colleagues, experienced travelers, still counted on me to lead them, inform them, and give them a bit of a navigation in a foreign country. So for me, the trip was an opportunity to finally feel like a grown up again — like someone who knows her way around. Someone who can order for herself in a restaurant; find her way around airport security.

An insider.

Traveling in America with a group of Israelis, however, also made me feel very American. So much so, I began to question my own identity. Who am I when I am in America? Am I American or Israeli? Or some strange hybrid better suited for a third independent country? (Uganda? Atlantis?)

I loved the cafes we lunched in; while they frowned at menus filled with burgers and sandwiches.

I sipped rootbeer satisfied, while they longed for tea with nana.

rootbeer

I spoke quietly and respectfully to our waiters. They demanded extra salad dressing in Hebrew.

They laughed at me. At my American-ness. And I at them. At their complete and utter Israeli-ness.

And then we laughed at ourselves

Since I moved to Israel 2 1/2 years ago, I constantly wonder where I fit in.

But then I remind myself that this is a question I’ve been asking for as long as I’ve been asking questions.

And for as long as I’ve been asking questions, I’ve been carefully observing myself and others.

Comparing myself to them. Comparing their behavior to mine.

Searching for the differences and the similarities.

Seeking harmonies. Identifying irritations.

This is what we do.

We humans.

With ease, we assign the harmonies to people who look and act like us, and the irritations to people who look and act different from us.

Until something happens to shatter the reliability of our stereotypes.

For me, this happened when I made Aliyah.

As I live among Israelis; and more so, as I become an Israeli, I’m busting my own stereotypes, and creating new ones.

But always defending Israel like she was my momma.

I can talk smack about her, but don’t you even think about it.

Culture

There’s a 90% chance I will never rush anywhere again

Jen

I’m fast.

Not short mini skirt and red lipstick kinda fast.

The kind of fast that shows up 15 minutes early no matter how hard she tries to be late. The kind of fast that needs you to get to the point…now. The kind that grits her teeth when people here in Israel say to her, “L’at l’at.” (slowly, slowly)

It’s kind of ironic — when Israelis tell me “slowly slowly.”

Most of them are trying to be kind; encouraging.

But is this really authentic?

Israelis, stereotypically, are the last people with patience for doing anything slowly.

Especially driving.

Israeli drivers, notoriously, are maniacs.

“Yes, we know,” you say. Maybe you follow it up with the “Ain Ma La’sot?” shrug.

What can we do about it other than drive defensively? you ask.

It’s a good question.

The other day a man was killed during the afternoon rush hour in a car accident on the road I take to and from work.

It was raining. There was oil on the road.

It could have been me.

I don’t know if recklessness was involved or not. But I wouldn’t be surprised.

Every day I drive like my life depends on it. Not because it does. But because all of my fellow drivers seem to be so focused on getting somewhere fast, they are unaware of the fact that I want to live.

Every time I am on the road, driving the speed limit or a reasonable level over — drivers pass me at lightning speed. They take over the opposite lane so they can pass the tractor trailer. They drive up my rear as if there is a free gift in my trunk.

What are they rushing to?

Death, obviously.

In my humble opinion, there are only three non-life-or-death reasons to rush anywhere in your car — and they all involve an orifice.

You need to pee. You need to poop. Or you need to push a baby out.

Not in that order.

Yes, Israeli drivers as a rule drive dangerously, but there IS something we can do.

Be one less dangerous Israeli driver on the road.

Be mindful of how you perceive your deadline.

Do you really need to get to work exactly on time?

Will the world end if you are late to that meeting?

No, it won’t. So keep your rage at bay, your phone in your purse, and your eyes on the prize — living.

And — slowly slowly: be the change you want to see on Israeli roads.

Culture

Finding your inner patriot

Jen

When do you decidedly fit into a nation?

Is it when you feel confident in a voting booth?

Is it when you feel the urge to buy cotton harem pants that drop just below the knee?

Is it when you recognize the country’s top celebs?

Mentors on Israel's The Voice
Mentors on Israel’s The Voice

If so, I’m not there yet.

Yesterday, on my drive into Tel Aviv for a meeting, I noticed a billboard for The Voice staring down at me from high above the freeway. Four faces: And none were remotely recognizable to me.

I couldn’t relate to the dress or hairstyle on any of the four. None looked like my friend, my father, or even someone I’d choose to be on of my top 5 list “freebies.”

Where am I? I thought.

Tel Aviv, my self answered.

And I live here? I thought.

No, not in Tel Aviv. And that’s part of the problem.

I live in the outskirts. I live a sheltered life.

On purpose.

But what happens when you live a quiet, sheltered life on purpose is this feeling of complete and utter disconnect. It takes a lot longer, presumably, to feel like an “Israeli” among Israelis.

Of course, part of the problem is I have a nice big fat crutch called “English.”

I work mostly in English. Many of my friends speak in English.

I stick to my English books on my Kindle and the little TV I watch is in English.

At some point in the last six months or so, I stopped trying so hard to fit in.

Which on the one hand makes my life a lot easier, but on the other hand keeps me stuck feeling like a tourist in this country. A foreigner. An outsider.

I’m a lot less lost than I was two years ago, but I’m not quite found yet either.

Which is okay.

Think about it, I told myself as I parked the car in Ramat Gan.

You spent 30-something years  in New Jersey, and you never quite found yourself there either.

Nor could I relate to the celebrities plastered on billboards. Nor were any of those celebs on my “top 5 freebie list.”

The cast of Jersey Shore
The cast of Jersey Shore
Culture, Education

Vote me

Jen

If you’re going to blog on Election Day, you better blog about the election, right?

It’s what’s trending. It’s what people are talking about. It’s what’s relevant.

No one wants to read blogs about somebody’s else’s kid on Election Day.

But just in case you’re someone who, like I am, is still in denial about the fact that today Americans vote to re-elect or elect a new president, here is a light and fluffy election-related, but unrelated post from your favorite (or second favorite) Israeli immigrant blogger.

A few weeks ago, my 9 year old immigrant son did something extraordinary. He ran for class representative in the 4th grade.

This would have been only somewhat extraordinary when we lived in the U.S. — my oldest has always been a friendly and confident kid, but nonetheless, I would have been impressed with any one of my children placing their names on a ballot, the results of which would label him a winner or a loser (at least among his peers).

Who does that? Who sets themselves up for that?

But, even more extraordinary is that my kid, the nine year old who has been in this country and part of this school communuity not quite two years, decided to run.

Part of the requirements included a speech in front of the class on why they should elect him.

In Hebrew.

I am so amazed by my children sometimes.

Truly a-mazed.

The kid didn’t even tell us he gave a speech until after the fact. He worked the speech up himself and gave it — off the cuff.

(I think he promised them a really fun year… and maybe some candy.)

People often ask me about the impacts of aliyah on my children. I know much of our happiness here has to do with how happy our kids are, so I often feel very grateful when I tell them our kids are doing beautifully.

They’ve learned the language. They’ve made friends. They even dare to throw their hats into rings.

My son — who ran against 7 other kids — did not win one of the two representative seats from his class.

He was disappointed. And, honestly, so were we.

My immediate thoughts were panic and guilt — “Wait! He was so popular when we lived in America. Did we drastically hurt his popularity by dragging him to Israel? Did we screw him up forever?!?”

Then I realized, “That’s not the point.”

The biggest accomplishment would not have been in winning. We already know this kid makes friends easily.

The accomplishment was that he ran at all.

And, for the first time ever, I felt the truth in the classic, yet typically ineffective cliche, “It doesn’t matter if you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.”

Culture, Religion

Religious puzzle

Jen

Is it possible to move to the Jewish State and feel less Jewish?

Yes. Yes, it is.

Even when you’re acting a lot more Jewish than you did when you lived in the Non-Jewish Jewish state. (Not, no the Vatican. New Jersey.)

Even though I moved to Israel and live in a community that is considered (by secular and pluralistic Jews here, at least) to be religious, I still often feel as goyish as a ham sandwich on white.

Take my Halloween post on the Times of Israel yesterday, for instance.

Of course, I knew I might ruffle a feather or two. Religious Jews don’t celebrate Halloween, not even in America. And I knew the Times of Israel attracts readers that tend to be a little on the, let’s just say, fervent side.

But I didn’t expect the commenters to go all Esmerelda on me.

(c) Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. Edward Scissorhands

On the one hand, I’m curious about it. In the same way I might be curious about a colorful school of clownfish swimming in a tank at the pet store.

I knew that observant Jews in America didn’t let their kids participate in Halloween festivities, though I never really understood why. Not the historical reason why; but the “why is it still relevant today” kinda why.

Halloween in America today is far, far away from idol worshipping. Unless, of course, you consider Smarties to be idolic. Why be so vigilant about keeping your kids off the streets and out of costume on October 31?

But of course, I fall into the camp that thinks kashrut as a means of humane slaughter is also outdated…especially when you take into consideration inhumane mass slaughterhouses like agriprocessor. Tells you what kind of Jew I am, and also shows you very clearly my stand on taking a more modern approach to tradition.

So, naturally, I wasn’t really prepared for the harsh admonishment on the first run of commenting on my post.

Yikes! I just wanted my kids to enjoy some cake and candy. I just wanted them to be amused and impressed by my polished witch cackle.

Heck, I just wanted a reason to be able to work my polished witch cackle into a sentence.

Is that so wrong?

Look: Halloween has nothing to do with my “traditions or values or way of life.”

Kids get dressed up and go beg for candy. When they get older, they throw eggs at my house.

Who would claim that this “holiday” has anything to do with their “traditions or values or way of life?”

Not even satan worshippers or pagans, I imagine.

And yet, somehow in her tone, this commenter implies that by recognizing a secularized American tradition I am somehow passing on bad values to my Jewish children. My Jewish children who go to Beit Knesset every Friday night for kabbalat Shabbat; my children who go to a Tali school and learn Tanakh; my children who — during play amongst themselves — will sometimes sit on the couch and daven with their dolls.

I’m not kidding.

I have video to prove it.

Maybe, the commenter is right. Maybe someday my kids will grow up to be idol worshipping pagans who dance naked in the moonlight at Stonehenge.

Personally, I think Halloween is more likely to turn kids into toothless fat old people than pagans.

And dancing naked in the moonlight at Stonehenge? Sounds fun.

But then again, I’m that kinda Jew.

Culture, Family, Food allergies, Health

Peanut-flavored twist of fate, or a miracle?

Jen

I’m writing this while it’s still very fresh.

Because I feel like I need to process it all.

Earlier this week I was engaged in a heated discussion in the comments section of a fellow blogger and fellow mom of food allergic kids about how Israel doesn’t take food allergies seriously.

Earlier this morning, I blogged about how frustrated I feel with the Israel medical care system.

And then, like a freak thunderstorm that knocks down the tree that just misses your house, the Universe decided it wanted to tell me something.

I think. Or else it’s all a very very strange coincidence.

Around lunch time, I got a call from my husband. He was on his way home with the boys from school. The 9 year old had just thrown up all over the car. My husband then told me that my son had eaten a candy at school and started feeling sick after. He was afraid it had nuts in it.

But he wasn’t sure. My son hadn’t read the ingredients.

Our smart son; our careful son; the one who has had now 7 years of experience living with food allergies… he slipped up.

Of course, one can understand. It was a sucking candy. Not a chocolate bar. Not a cake or a cookie or a brownie. An orange-flavored hard candy. At least that’s what it looked like and even tasted like to him.

In all our years of reading ingredients, we have never once ever come upon a hard sucking candy with nuts in it (save for coconut oil, which he is not allergic to.)

I think he got complacent. And, like any 9 year old boy, careless.

Maybe we got complacent. We stopped nudging him.

Either way, today, after years of wondering what it would be like to look anaphylaxis  in the face, I did. Smack dab.

This wasn’t my son’s first allergic reaction. He’s had three reactions in the past — one last Spring even to a new food he wasn’t allergic to in the past — but all have been treated  successfully with Benadryl, an antihistamine. It’s the first course of treatment according to our allergists, unless his lips swell or he can’t breathe.

Today, his lips weren’t swollen and he could still breathe, but yet, he was not right. I could tell. Kinda. But not for certain.

As soon as he got home, I could see he was pale. He also couldn’t breathe from his nose. And while he could still breathe from his mouth, his throat hurt and his voice sounded like he had something stuck in there.

I wasn’t quite sure he “needed” the epipen. But I held on to it as I evaluated him. I looked in his throat. It looked swollen.

I had just given myself the epipen a few months before for what I had thought was allergy but turned out to be food poisoning. At the time, I told myself, “It was good you did. Now you know it doesn’t really hurt. Now you will really give it to the kids if they need it and not worry about it hurting.” (Ask any parent of kids with food allergies and most will tell you they worry about having to give the epipen to their kid. “I don’t want to give him the shot. It will hurt.”)

I looked at my son and asked, “Do you feel I should give you the epipen?”

He was scared. He hesitated. He didn’t say, No. But he couldn’t say, Yes.

I said yes for him.

I reminded him that it wouldn’t hurt. It would help.

He was brave. Very brave, as I stuck the epipen in his thigh.

Thank goodness, I did. Later, after we took him to the doctor; after the doctor checked his vitals; after he gave him steroids as a follow up treatment; he told us, we did the right thing.

And it was only after that, my husband pulled out one of the wrapped candies the teacher had given us to show us what he ate. Another child had handed them out during recess when the teacher wasn’t there.

The candy said Praline on the wrapper.

Pralines are not nuts, themselves. They are a nut-flavored candy or cookie.  It wasn’t part of our vocabulary … the one we’ve always used when training him on what to do around food. My son didn’t know what a praline was. Because it’s a nut candy, he’s never eaten it. Also, it’s not something children generally eat in anywhere in America I’ve ever been (except Georgia, now that I think about it). My son has never seen anything like that.

Of course, if he had read the ingredients written in teeny tiny crumpled up type on the wrapper, he would have seen the word “peanut.” We did.

I can’t be angry at my son. I am too thankful right now he is alive.

I am thankful he trusted his body and got help right away.

I’m thankful that his teacher called us immediately as soon as she heard he had eaten the candy.

I’m thankful my husband happened to be nearby with the car and could get him from school.

I’m thankful I had the courage to give him the epipen even though I wasn’t sure he “needed” it.

I’m thankful there was a clinic open to see my child (even though the first two ones we called were closed and no one available to answer the phones).

I’m thankful we had friends around to help us with our other kids.

I’m thankful traffic on the one lane road to the clinic wasn’t extraordinarily slow as it often can be.

I’m thankful the doctor on call at the clinic happened to be our pediatrician, who knew us, and who we felt comfortable with.

I’m happy he took us seriously. I’m happy the nurse and the receptionist at the clinic also took us very seriously. I’m happy the teacher (who called us later to check on him and express her concern) and the children in my son’s class all took it seriously.

Of course, I am most thankful he is sitting next to me right now bugging me to get off the computer and get him a popsicle.

He is ok.

He is ok.

And, perhaps, there are Israelis who take food allergies seriously.

After today, I imagine some of them will likely take them more seriously than they did before.

I’m not suggesting the turn of events was all the work of something supernatural or magical. Or that someone or something was really trying to send me a message.

(They do take it seriously.)

(He is in safe hands.)

(You will know what to do.)

(He will be okay.)

But, one way or another?

Message received.