You could say I cleaned my kitchen for Passover yesterday. Or you could say I did this.

1. Wiped and cleaned down display shelves; walked to various places around the house putting things where they should go (books in their owner's rooms; sunglasses, too; assorted wires and chargers in his junk drawer).

2. Cleaned 8 dining room chairs and the accompanying table.

3. Started making a pile of chametz things by the porch door that were going out to the shed. Cookbooks and challah board were first.

4. Designated which cabinets in the kitchen would hold our Pesach stuff.

5. Moved all the stuff out of those cabinets and stuffed them into other cabinets.

6. Cleaned butcher block island; added more stuff to chametz pile.

7. Cleaned out really annoying corner cabinets that I had to crawl into to get to get to everything. Founds tons of paper cups, napkins and assorted stuff that I keep buying new thinking I had run out.

8. Went out to the porch, emptied a plastic closet in the shed, hosed it down to clean it, left it there to dry.

9. Did I mention 4 loads of laundry? (True not a kitchen chore, but I thought you should know).

10. Cleaned the microwave. (yeah, I should do that more often).

11. Cleaned the toaster oven. Put it in the going-to-the-shed pile.

12. Put everything in the pile in the shed.

13. Swept and washed the dining room floor.

14. Moved the plastic closet into the dining area.

15. Washed, dried and put away remaining dishes.

16. Scrubbed the counters.

17. Scrubbed the sink.

18. Swept and washed the kitchen floor. (Several times; it was really gross).

19. Poured boiling water over the counters (you're right, I should have done that before I washed the floor).

20. Covered the sink with Israeli heavy duty aluminum foil. Which means it's not.

21. Shlepped the Pesach stuff (which had been placed in the family room a few days ago) into the kitchen.

22. Found a space for most of the stuff.

I started at 10 a.m. and finished at 7 p.m. (Yeah, I took some short breaks. Sue me.) When Isaac came home from work at 8:30 p.m., he said to me, "Why didn't you wait for me, we could have done it together?"

So yes, we are commanded to observe Passover for 7 days, but here at Casa Baila, we are very stringent--we're doing 11.

Wishing everyone a wonderful Pesach.

Definitely not Costco, but still... (Or why I cried tears of pure joy today)

A few weeks ago, in the Jerusalem Post I came across an ad splayed across two pages from Supersol EXTRA Deal (emphasis on EXTRA because the Supersol I usually shop in is just plain "Deal"; nothing extra about it). The ad said, if I remember correctly, "Costco in Israel". Costco, as many of you know is one of those giant warehouse shopping centers in the US where you can buy a 5 gallon jug of milk and a package of 300 rolls of toilet paper. Size matters at Costco. You buy in bulk and if you're smart about it you often save money. Most Americans I know living in Israel miss it.

The buy-in-bulk phenomena has not as of yet penetrated the Israeli psyche. On a practical level, Israeli kitchens and homes are generally smaller and do not have much space for storage (although this is changing somewhat). Mostly, though I think Israelis are very much live-in-the-moment people. (When an Israeli friend recently told me she found Purim costumes for her kids for the ridiculously low price of 9 shekel, I asked her if she bought some for next year as well. She answered, "I should worry now for next year?", which is perhaps the quintessential Israeli response).

My friend Tammy saw the ad as well and when we discussed it, we both snickered, "Costo in Israel? Yeah right". But we decided to put our cynicism aside and today took a trip out to Nes Tziona (about 15 minutes from Modi'in) to check things out.

I should mention here that two weeks before Pesach, or Passover, the entire country is in a frenzy. Everyone here, religious or not is getting ready for the holiday. People are cleaning and redoing their homes and there is an orgy of cooking happenning everywhere. I really didn't want to be in a supermarket this time of year, but there is no choice; I, too, have to get ready for the chag.

And so the parking lot was crazy. It's a good thing Israeli drivers are so polite or we would never gotten the spot we did. We then went over to get a shopping cart, which were the big "Costco-style" carts. The carts were not locked in and no coin was necessary to free them of any chains. Tammy and I each took a shopping cart, paused, and looked at each other in disbelief.

This is where the tears of joy came. If you have ever shopped in a supermarket in this country, you will understand. The back wheels of the shopping carts were locked. The cart could be steered left or right, according to MY will.

Dayenu. If that would have been the only positive thing about the experience, it would have been enough. But it wasn't.

We found some really good buys at Supersol EXTRA Deal. Items were not larger-than-life-sized, but rather what they do is give you a better price if you buy three of an item. So for example, a box of Honey Bunches of Oats Cereal was 19.99 shekel instead of the usual 24 or more shekel--but you had to buy three. (One Israeli woman said to me--what do I need three items for? This is a stupid store.) Even singly, many of the items were lower priced than the regular Supersol (except fruits and veggies; those seemed to be more). The store also had greater variety than in the supermarket, a really nice home goods area, a pharmacy, electronics, and (coming soon) an organic food section. Workers milling around were very helpful. It was also fun seeing everything stocked up way high, just like in Costco.

There were some negatives: like Costco, the store was huge and it took forever to shop and wait in line. This store in particular seemed a bit shabby, although it was clean. But overall it was a pretty good experience and we saved some money.

Only things missing: free tastings and blueberry muffins the size of my head.

That would have been perfect.

I just wanted you to know

I know that many of you (readers and facebook friends who sometimes tune in to the blog) may not be aware of what has happened here in Israel over the weekend.

I just wanted you to know.

On Friday night, in a place called Itamar a "yishuv" in Judea and Samaria* at least one terrorist infiltrated this place; that is they cut through the fence. Friday night marks the beginning of Shabbat, our Sabbath here in Israel. At approximately 10:15 PM this person or persons broke into a home where two adults--a man and a woman, parents, and their five children were sleeping. This person(s) went from room to room with his weapon and quietly stabbed the parents, Udi, 36 and Rut, 35 and three of the children, Yoav, 11, Elad, 3 and Hadas, 3 MONTHS. Two other children, ages 2 and 8, were apparently sleeping in a side room missed by this person(s) and were physically unharmed. At approximately 11 PM, the 12-year-old daughter returned from a youth activity and could not get into the house, but heard her two-year-old brother crying from inside. Alarmed that noone seemed to be responding to him, she ran to a neighbor for help. The neighbor and the child broke into the house to find the carnage left behind by the murderer(s).

I suppose, in light of the devastation in Japan and the tragic bus accident in New York City, that one single Israeli family being murdered in cold blood while they were sleeping may not garner the attention of the media where you are.

But I just wanted you to know.

I am well aware of how my country is portrayed in the world media. We are, according to many, occupiers, oppressors, an apartheid state. But there is another side to the story, the side where the people we are supposedly oppressing want us dead. That's me, my husband, my children, my neighbors, my fellow countrymen and their children. And their infants.

On Friday night, they in no small way succeeded.

I just wanted you to know.

Birthday wishes

In Israel, there is a very nice custom in which the birthday person gives special blessings to those around her. I happen to be celebrating a special birthday (no not an even number, I just think all my birthdays are very special). In this tradition, I bestow my blessings upon you.

May your home look the same way when you walk in the door after a long day as you did when you left it. May there be no cups on the table, crumbs on the floor or food in the TV room.

Unless of course you want your home to look different from what you left in the morning. Then I wish that for you.

May your teenagers answer their phones whenever you call them.

May they still have their phones for you to call them.

May all your cabinet doors be closed, especially if you're standing up after bending over to get something. And if it wasn't may the swear words that pour forth from your mouth go unheard by your teenagers.

May your car stop making that funny noise that sounds like this: KA-CHING.

May your boss not tell you, when you ask for a raise, "Excellent timing, Bibi is making us give you a cost-of-living raise of .02%".

May your dog always greet you at the door (because L-rd knows your teenagers won't).

(For you younger moms--this is an equal opportunity blog)--May your kids get into and out of their carseats by themselves (including the 'click'), shower by themselves and yes, wipe themselves. On that note, may you be able to use the bathroom by yourselves, with the door closed.

(For the men out there): May you always shower your women with compliments and love. You know they deserve it, even when they order you around.

May your children always forget to log out of their facebook pages so you can see what's going on in their lives.

And may you find no surprises there when you do.

May you always get a cart at the supermarket with wheels that work. (Hey, a girl can dream.)

And may you be in the fast lane when you get to the cashier.

And may the cashier say to you, "Would you like some help with the bagging?"

May you always remember what you went upstairs to get. Or at least remember it before you give up and go back downstairs.

May the TV show you are downloading do so quickly.

May your printer always have ink.

May your internet always be up.

May your blogs be filled with comments [almost] as witty as your post.

And finally may your lives be filled with health, prosperity, peace and love and many, many more birthdays.

Waxing poetic about Tuna Casserole

When I was a kid there were certain meals that my mother made that became legendary.

On Thursday nights she would bake challah, and set some of the dough aside for pizza.

Once she started working, home cooking became a bit scarce. By this time I was a teenager and I'd tease her about throwing the bologna and rye bread on the table, with the bellow, "Supper's ready!".

Not exactly healthy living, I guess, but to this day those foods evoke in me memories of that time, where I can almost reach out and touch and taste and feel--and be there.

But there is one dish that I have missed. I've never seen this dish served in a restaurant, nor have I heard my friends discussing their recipe for it. When the girls were much younger, I tried to re-create it for them. The vehement negative feedback I received from them and from Isaac was such that, traumatized, I have never attempted to make it again.

What is it about Tuna Casserole that brings out this impassioned response in people?

"I hate the word casserole", shudders my friend Efrath.

Huh?

Is it the noodles, flat and broad, with just the right texture?

Is it the tuna fish--only American used for this recipe?

Is it the cheese, liberally sprinkled through and on top, melted and browned to perfection?

Or is it the Cream of Mushroom soup, so thick it doesn't pour when you open the can? That when mixed with the noodles, cheese and tuna makes this satisying slurpy, wet sound?

Alas, it had been years and years since I inhaled that essence, heard that sound and savored that taste.

And then I moved here. And met and befriended Tammy and Alan. And discovered, a mutual affinity between Alan and myself for this gourmet dish. We found our memories of how the dish was made similar and began to plan for a time when we would sit down and embrace this meal again in spite of the ridicule of our respective families.

Alan and Tammy provided the Cream of Mushroom and American Tuna. I provided the other ingredients and baked it. Tammy made pizza for the rest of our families.

Last night we sfinally sat down to dinner together--in the middle of the week! on a school night! As I took that first bite, I closed my eyes and saw my mother pulling the white scratched casserole dish out of the oven in our tiny Brooklyn kitchen. I remembered that sometimes I'd sneak in and pull the cheese off the top and when she'd ask who did it, I'd say , "Not me". I can still see that dish soaking in hot water and soap after it had been devoured and her putting it away in its spot to wait for next time.

Isaac and the girls wouldn't go near the stuff last night. Neither would Tammy and Alan's daughter. But their son did try it, and--surprise--asked for more.

The next generation of Tuna Casserole lovers has been born.

In case I had you salivating, here's the recipe:

Tuna Casserole

1 package of broad, flat pasta, cooked al dente
2 cans American white tuna fish
3 cans Cream of Mushroom soup
shredded cheese, lots of it

Boil up the noodles according to instructions. Place in a lasagna (9 X 13) pan or aluminum tin. Add the tuna, flaked. Add the mushroom sauce (You can also add mushrooms) Add the cheese, mix it through and sprinkle on top. Bake, covered for about 20 minutes and then uncover. Continue baking until cheese is browned.

My poor, abandoned blog

I don't know what to say.

I have no excuse.

I still write blog posts in my head. I still get inspired.

I just don't feel like putting it to the screen.

I've thought of bowing out gracefully, ala my old friend SuperRaizy.

But I don't want to let it go. I feel like I'll be back. Really.

I still read blogs. Occasionally comment.

But the actual writing--well you see what's happened.

When I started the blog, I committed, in my head to writing two posts a week, with a goal of ten a month. I just like nice round numbers that way. If you look up my stats, you'll see that's just what I did--until this past April, when I took a month off after my father passed away.

I wonder about that connection. It's been 8 months since he left. In my day-to-day life you would not know that I am in my year of mourning. There are certain things I won't do until the year is up, but those are mostly things you wouldn't notice. And yet, I've been meaning to write a post about my father, one with pictures, one that will show the world who didn't know him just how special a person he was. But I haven't been able to do that and maybe, just maybe that is why I pay minimal attention to Calling Baila.

Or maybe that's not it. Maybe I'm just to busy with all the other things in my life: work, TWO book clubs, my crocheting chug, pilates, walking all over town because my car died and, oh yeah, let's not forget those other four creatures that live in my home. (Oops, Sorry Ozzy, five creatures. Sheesh I hate it when you read over my shoulder).

Whatever it is, know this: I'm not throwing in the towel. I love this blog. If the posts are down so be it. I know I'll get back to it on some sort of regular basis and when I do, I hope you'll continue to stop in.

Because you guys are what make blogging so much fun.

Where everybody knows your name

The fires that have raged through the Carmel Mountains and Forest area are apparently coming under control. This has been a devastating blow to us. Thousands of dunams destroyed, millions of trees, wildlife, homes, and of course the highest price paid, the lives of 41 men and women.

When I heard about the 40 victims on the bus filled with prison guards that was on its way to help evacuate a prison because the fire was getting closer, I knew something that every Israeli knew, and feared. In a country as tiny as ours 41 is a huge number. No doubt many people would know someone who was connected to one of those killed.

One of the men killed in the bus incident was from a nearby yishuv (suburb). When I got to work this morning, I found out that the man killed was the uncle of one of the children I work with. The child's father is sitting shiva for his brother, who died in a horrific way and I will go to pay my respects at some point during the week. The men and women on that bus came from all over the country, from all walks of life, Jewish and not. We are a country with barely six degrees of separation. Another man on that bus came from a Yishuv called Ginot Shomron. We have several friends who live there--very likely they know this person, a 32-year-old father of five.

I guess my point is the connectedness you feel here. In a country that you can cross in six hours by car across its length, and probably less than two across its width, its impossible not to feel it.

It was only a week ago that Isaac and I traveled with friends to Zichron Yaakov--a stone's throw from where the fire took place. I do not know the area well, but my kids have hiked there and friends tell me it was a beautiful area of Israel, where mountain and sea came together. Here's a picture I found of the area, before the fire:


I can't bare to show you a picture of after.

May the families of the fallen find comfort, may the injured heal quickly from their wounds, and may our charred land recover its beauty.

And, G-d, please send the rains we so desperately await.