Feb 05, 2020
Why I Love Terrible Kosher Pizza, and Other Mysteries of My Jewish Life
I am no gentile, but a Jew, with chill Jewish parents, who loves the pepper-and-onion slice at Alfie’s.
I am no gentile, but a Jew, with chill Jewish parents, who loves the pepper-and-onion slice at Alfie’s.
If I was in the kitchen making candy, usually my mom wasn’t in there screaming or throwing a butter dish at my dad.
Breadmaking made me feel purposeful, instead of feeling as if I scarcely had control over anything.
“As a young woman, I was rarely in control of my body or my mind. I had hungers like snakes wildly contorting from my head.”
“To be an amateur is to let one’s leisure activities remain indifferent to the whims of capital.”
“Hold a cast-iron skillet and you’ll feel the weight of this history through the handle.”
I’ve gotten better at eating since rehab, but I’ve yet to explore the pleasure of food; of preparing it and enjoying it.
“We eat meat and tell ourselves these bodies are just burger, ham, filets.”
“Half my neighbor’s sour cherry tree grew over our fence, which made that half ours by law no matter what she said.”
“It’s right, I think, to have death be a part of life; it’s the way it should be.”
“He showed us the realm of good-eating fruit, and we have come to protect this pleasure fiercely.”
Level 1 is not hot (sorry, Sriracha). Level 2 (habanero, scotch bonnet) gets interesting. Then there is Level 3.
I keep reminding myself that I’ll go to Sicily for the history, not the limes. But why kid myself?
