Listen, deadbeat. It’s too late to send out paper cards, which you’ve been “taking a year off” from doing since 1993.
In fact, failing to send out cards is the only Christmas tradition you’ve managed to keep faithfully, other than miraculously transforming, every Christmas Eve, from someone who owns six pairs of scissors and four rolls of tape into someone who is seriously considering using little dabs of strawberry jelly to stick together the shredded edges of wrapping paper, which you attempted to cut by scoring it with a Budweiser cap. Jelly is sticky, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
Settle down, twitchy. You can buy tape later. Right now you have to write a Christmas letter, because, although you have been assiduously updating your co-workers, gym mates, and entire eighth grade graduating class with Facebook pictures of your latest half-eaten lasagna, half-eaten frittata, and half-eaten farro salad, you have sort of forgotten to talk to your parents in eleven months. They don’t know you’ve moved out of the country, changed your citizenship, become a communist, and given birth to twins. They don’t even know you’ve forgiven them for making you take hand bell lessons in third grade.
In other words, you’ve been out of touch.
Well, a Christmas letter is a graceful way to get back in touch. Because that’s what decent people do, that’s why.
And no, you can’t send out cards in early January and play the “liturgical accuracy” card. Some people can pull that off, but not you. Why? Because the only stamps you own have jack-o’-lanterns or valentine hearts on them. And besides, what would you use to address all those envelopes when you have no pens — no pens at all? No, you can’t just write in strawberry jelly. What is the matter with you?
You’re going to have to write a Christmas email, which you can just blast out to everyone on your contacts list. Tacky, but acceptable. People have good hearts. People understand.
You really just have one more problem: What to say.
“Just tell the truth?” HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. Yes, why don’t you just explain what your family has been up to for the past year? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. Ohhh, man, that’s a good one. As if you didn’t expend enough energy hiding the truth about your family from people you know to be mandatory reporters. Now you’re supposed to put it in writing and broadcast it to the world, with a big fat “Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and Don’t You Judge Me?”
Okay, look, here’s the plan. You actually can tell friends and family about your year. You just have to be selective about how you phrase it. For instance, you could say,
“We are so pleased that the kiddos got into this elite new school. I don’t want to be a name-dropper, but they have been on the waiting list for a lo-o-o-ong time. I think it was Junior’s essay that tipped the balance and got him in!”
And nobody has to know that the “new school” is actually the Pauly Shore Vocational Middle School for the Entertainingly Pathetic, and that his “essay” was his entry into the Mom of the Year contest in the local paper, wherein he described your recipe for fluffer-ramen sammiches, which you packed in his lunch every day since kindergarten, and which may or may not be responsible for his extensive neurological lag.
Or you could just casually mention,
“My personal trainer says I’ve made huge progress this year!”
And you don’t need to provide the trivial detail that your “personal trainer” means the guy who designs your prescription pants for super fat fatties, and boy, does he like a challenge.
Or you could say,
“We’re so proud of Robert!”
And just leave out the part about
“Robbie got fired from his dental hygienist job again, and they refuse to even consider a reapplication until he returns the gross of Doc McStuffins tattoos he stole from the kiddie prize drawer. The good news is, the statute of limitations came into effect before they were able to prove conclusively that he was the one huffing all the nitrous oxide, so they won’t be pressing charges. Go, Robbie!!!”
You see? It’s all in how you phrase it. Why, you could be thinking,
“What cruel twist of fate burdened me with a bunch of witless baboons like you? If there were any justice in the world, I’d be putting my feet up, listening to Bach, and eating a nice toasted bagel with cream cheese, and you’d be the one furtively scraping dried Spaghetti-o’s off your toddler’s shirt as you try and make yourself as inconspicuous as possible in the orthodontist’s waiting room, knowing that all you have to come home to is a trashed living room, a mountain of dirty laundry, and a hunk of chop meat that will in no way defrost in time for dinner.”
and nobody but you needs to know that that’s what you mean when you say,
Anxiety is like a strangling vine. Rooting it out feels perilous, because you’re afraid that all the wholesome, fruitful shoots will be uprooted along with it. If I stop fretting, will I stop caring? If I stop freaking out, will I stop making an effort? If I’m not suffering, is it really love?
I have not lived an especially tragic or dramatic life. But like everyone, I have suffered losses and privations, and I have also had burdens lifted and obstacles removed. Strangely enough, the latter—the lifting of burdens and the removal of obstacles—was often more violent and painful and less welcome than the overt trials. Why? For so much of my life, oh how badly I have simply wanted to be left alone, undisturbed. I have wanted to live out my days among the familiar highs and lows of my familiar life, suffering comfortably, crumbling slowly, resisting disruption, wincing at the very thought of change. Slowly eating little chocolates as I count down my days.
Sweet Benny wanted a rose-themed birthday. Easy enough. We made some giant paper flowers and hung them from the ceiling. Here it is, halfway decorated:
and the night before, Benny and I made some fruit roll roses.
She’s a wonderful kid to work with, and she never gets offended if you say, “Sweetheart, Mama’s ears are tired. Can you stop talking for a few minutes?” She just laughs and says, “Yeah, I like to talk.” Then she keeps talking.
I couldn’t find the Fruit by the Foot strips I was looking for, so we got regular fruit roll-ups, unrolled them, cut them into four strips, and pinched the ends together to make one long strip. Then we started rolling it up in a tight roll to make the center of the rose; then we rolled up the rest loosely, twisting and occasionally folding and smooshing the strip. I don’t know if I can describe it better than that. Some of the turned out more rose-like than others!
Then we stuck toothpicks in the bottoms and stuck them in the cake. I used a Wilton leaf tip to make the leaves, and added some dots for garlands on the sides. My first leaves, not too shabby!
She was delighted with her cake. When Damien put it in front of her, she just sat there, smiling and smiling.
She requested stuffed shells. I didn’t have my recipe in front of me, so I checked out the box. Let’s see . . . cottage cheese . . . zucchini . . . yeah, okay, this box is fired. I went and found my recipe. Recipe card at the end.
For a party activity, we made flower crowns. These were first graders, and they definitely needed some help from the moms, but I bet they could do it on their own the second time around. We made circlets out of wired pine garlands, then made standard tissue paper flowers with a little bell at the center, threaded through the pipe cleaner. (Yes, I still call them pipe cleaners instead of chenille stems. Take that!) We attached the flowers on with the pipe cleaners, then tied wisps of tulle to both sides of the flower just to add some poofiness, then tied ribbons to hang down the back. I didn’t get any good pics, but can probably do a tutorial if anyone is interested. Not a bad party activity, and the girls looked adorable, and ready for the Kentucky Derby.
SUNDAY Roast beef sandwiches, chips
Damien roasted a couple of chuck roasts. He covered them in salt, pepper, and garlic powder, and seared them in very hot oil, about three minutes per side, then roasted them in a 325 oven for about 90 minutes. Then he let them rest for a bit, then sliced it up. We put it on rolls with horseradish sauce and provolone, and put them in the oven for a few minutes to toast up. I also had tomatoes in mine.
I had a jar of sliced pepperoncini, but they were a weird color, so I threw them out. Aren’t you glad I’m so tired I thought that was worth writing down?
MONDAY Ham, mashed potatoes, peas, roast brussels sprouts
Me, sadly flipping through supermarket flyers: So . . . do you guys . . . maybe . . . want ham?
Benny: HAM. HAM. HAMANDMASHEDPOTATOESANDPEAS.
Me: Okay! But how about Brussels sprouts instead of peas, just to mix things up a little? Brussels sprouts are on sale right n-
Benny:
So that’s what we had. I also roasted some Brussels sprouts, because they were on sale and I like them.
Benny was irate.
TUESDAY Sweet and sour chicken stir fry, rice
Clara had been asking for this meal, which I make very authentically by cutting chicken into pieces and cooking them, then adding steamed vegetables from a bag and sauce from a jar, and schlorping the whole thing over rice.
It was extra schlorpy, because I didn’t drain the vegetables sufficiently. I even found a few cans of water chestnuts in the cabinet. I took them out of the cans and everything.
Oh, I cooked the rice in the Instant Pot using the 1:1 method. Works every time. I like the IP for rice because it comes out nice and sticky, and you can make it ahead of time and just let it stay warm until you’re ready.
WEDNESDAY Ragù on fettuccine, garlic bread
Damien started making his amazing ragù the night before, and this was the ragù that surpassed all previous ragùs. He uses this Deadspin recipe, and this time, he used a pound of pork, a pound of veal, and . . . hold onto your butts . . . a pound of pancetta, which he ground by hand.
He ran a bunch of onions, celery, and carrots through the food processor, and threw in a bunch of anchovies, wine, and olive oil, and a little tomato paste, and let it cook a good long time. I gained eleven pounds just smelling it.
It was fantastic.
I know it doesn’t look like much in this pic, but it’s one of those foods where the flavor just blooms inside your mouth. Can’t figure out if that’s a creepy thing to say or not, but it sure was exciting. Also, every time the kids asked what was for supper, I would sing out, “ra-GUUUUUUUUUU!” to the tune of Veggie Tales “Cebu,” and it really annoyed them. Ha ha!
THURSDAY Pork ramen
Sometimes this gets pretty elaborate, but this time it was just cheapy ramen, some boneless pork ribs sautéed in olive oil with soy sauce and sliced, some sautéed mushrooms, chopped scallions, and soft boiled eggs. Oh, and crunchy noodles. Spicy sesame seeds and hot sauce.
I was starving, and this tasted like heaven. Salty, salty heaven.
FRIDAY Tuna noodle for kids, possibly bouillabaisse for me.
I got some kind of frozen mixed seafood whatnot for like $4 a few weeks ago, and it’s calling to me.
Okay, that’s a wrap! Now, how about Christmas baking? Got anything good? I haven’t even thought about it yet, but I’ll probably make chocolate caramel nuts, which make good token presents. Here’s my post with a photo guide to the recipe from Smitten Kitchen. You really need a photo guide, because it goes through something like eleven alarming stages before things turn out fine at the end. This post includes links to other helpful basic December recipes, including fudge, nut brittle, buckeyes, and rum balls.
Just a basic recipe. You can add meat to the sauce or spinach to the cheese, or anything that strikes your fancy. Serves about 10.
Ingredients
212-oz boxesjumbo shells
232-oz tubsricotta cheese
8ozgrated parmesan cheese
4cupsshredded mozzarella, divided
4eggs, beaten
1Tbspgarlic powder
2Tbspdried basil
1Tbspsalt
1tsppepper
1/2tspnutmeg
4-5cupspasta sauce
Instructions
Cook the shells in salted water, drain, and rinse in cool water. Mix them up with a little olive oil so they don't stick together. Or if you will be using them soon, let them stay in the pot of cool water.
Preheat the oven to 350. Mix into the ricotta cheese all the seasoning, the beaten eggs, the parmesan, and 3 of the cups of mozzarella, setting aside the rest of the mozzarella.
Spread a little sauce in the bottom of an oven-proof pan or dish. Spoon a few tablespoons of the cheese filling into each shell and lay the stuffed shells close together.
Top with the rest of the pasta sauce, and sprinkled the remaining mozzarella on top of that. Cover loosely with foil and cook for 45 minutes or longer, until it's bubbly.
Thanks for taking us out past the playground into the warm, dim, shadowy woods so we could drink our cartons of milk on a carpet of pine needles while you read to us about The Little Red Hen. I really liked it.
Quick, before it’s too late! Here are five of my favorite shops selling handmade goods that would would make delightful presents. All the goods are handmade by busy moms (including three single moms and one military wife). In the comments, please feel free to leave a link to your own shop for handmade goods for sale.
So much better than fuzzy dice! You can’t actually light it on fire, but you can open it up and put a drop of essential oil on the little lava rock “coal” inside, to keep your car smelling holy (or lavender-y or lemon grassy or whatever you like). Of course you can use it in your home, too, in your prayer corner or anywhere.
Next up: The shimmering chainmail wonderland that is Iron Lace Design. Here’s my current favorite from the genius of Kyra Matsui:
Thayet of Conte. Breathtaking. And what do you know, before I could publish this post, it sold! These are works of art and many are one-of-a-kind. Luckily, Kyra does take commissions.
A perennially popular item: One-decade fidget rosaries.
“Sturdy enough for children, deeply satisfying for people who fidget when they pray.” The semiprecious stone beads spin and the chain mail feels wonderful in the hands. I’ve never seen anything like these anywhere else.
Browse around and be amazed, and follow Iron Lace Design on Facebook to get in on the ground floor when Kyra comes up with something new and breathtaking, like this
before it gets listed and snapped up.
And finally: Apple and Azalea has a wonderful array of elegant and stylish memory wire rosary bracelets. Here are just a few that are in stock. I have one of these Theresa’s rosary bracelets and it is wonderful.
“Unakite is a beautiful natural stone that is mostly olive green with swirls of salmon pink, brick red, forest green and even a little gray. This amazing range of color has the over all effect of being both earthy and feminine. The five decade rosary bracelet begins with a jet black bead that has a gold crucifix stamped on it.”
soft and cute, perfect for your little white whale on the go.
***
Order soon! All five stores are run by extremely busy moms working hard to get all your orders to you as soon as possible, so do check delivery times if you’re hoping to get them by Christmas.
Other sellers of handmade goods, feel free to leave a link to your store in the comments. Handmade goods only, please; no essential oils or other multilevel marketing products. Thanks!
The other day, Taylor Marshall tweeted, um, a bunch of things. But stay with me! This post isn’t really about him. I just don’t know how else to talk about what I want to talk about, except by starting with what he tweeted.
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First, apparently understandably distraught over an interview with McCarrick’s first victim, he tweeted some foul garbage about how gay it is that seminarians had a gingerbread house-building contest. Seriously, he did the f*ggy lisp and all, and included a name and photos of the men engaging in this “effeminate and puerile” activity, because that’s how you act when you’re a serious Catholic theologian and scholar.
It was wildly gross and offensive (and since he asked, can you imagine Basil and Gregory tweeting at each other?), and insanely insulting to gay people in direct contradiction of the catechism.
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But it also threw into high relief how poorly so many people understand what it means to be masculine. Many of his followers apparently believe that any time you’re not studying Latin or logic, building fires, chopping something, or shooting something, you’re a whisker away from of sliding into that dreaded horror, effeminacy. In order to save the Church, we must stop having . . . gingerbread.
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His tweet was thoroughly trounced by many others, so I left it alone. But then he followed up with something that really nagged at me:
“The womb belonged to Joseph and he set it aside for Christ. The tomb belonged to another Joseph and he set it aside for Christ.”
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I guess what happened is he read Fr. Longenecker’s tweet about wrapping Jesus’s body, and thought, “Whoa. Joseph-Joseph . . . womb-tomb!” and, despite not being Dylan Thomas, he went with it, rather than doing a quick heresy self-check. When readers responded to that phrase “The womb belonged to Joseph” with revulsion and dismay, he dug in with this:
He clarifies that Mary ruled over Joseph’s body, as well as vice versa: that there is mutual self-gift in marriage. He meant, apparently, that Joseph gave over his reasonable expectations that he’d be able to have sex with Mary, because he was willing to make a sacrifice to God of that privilege. And this is true enough.
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But the trouble is first in the way he phrased it. Saying Mary’s womb “belongs” to Joseph is just . . . gross. Things belong to us; people (including their organs) do not belong to us, not even if we’re married. If you want to hear how absurd and unseemly it is to phrase his idea as he did, say instead: “The penis belonged to Mary, so she went outside and peed with it.”
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I’m sincerely not trying to be crude. I’m trying to point out that a womb is an almost indescribably personal, intimate thing for a woman, and it’s bizarrely wrong to say it belongs to her husband. It doesn’t. It is hers. A woman rightly gives herself to her husband, over and over and over again, but he never owns her, no matter how much it may feel that way, no matter how many times she gives herself to him.
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And there we have the second, much more serious problem with Marshall’s thought. Joseph did not, in fact, consent to give Mary’s womb over to the Lord. How could he? It was hers to give, and she gave it at the Annunciation. Joseph only found out about her decision after the fact. He didn’t give anything, because there was nothing for him to give. The consent had already been given by the time he found out she was pregnant.
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Joseph’s choice wasn’t to give or not to give; his choice was either to get rid of her quietly, to get rid of her noisily, or to accept the situation with love, trust, and awe, because God told him not to be afraid to accept it.
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And that is what he did. There was no transfer, no consent, no free will offering originating from Joseph. Mary was never going to be “his,” because she had already given herself to God in a real, radical way.
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If Joseph gave Mary to God, then what did Mary’s “fiat” mean? Not a hell of a lot. More like when a child is allowed to sign a document that needs an adult’s signature to be official. No, it was Mary’s choice to make, and what she said to the Lord changed the course of . . . everything.
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But Joseph’s whole deal reminds me of the concept that “we are all feminine in relation to God.” I’ve been wrestling with this idea my whole adult life, and most days, the best I can do is set it aside and do whatever job’s in front of me.
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But so much of being a woman is being asked to accept things after they have already been decided, rather than being asked if you want them to happen or not. Yes, of course we decide many things, and make many choices. But women also very early confront the idea that things happen to them which they are not truly free to change or avoid. Ten times I have labored to give birth, and ten times, when the true agony set in, I have changed my mind. I decided I didn’t want to do it after all. Didn’t change a damn thing, thank God.
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It’s not that women are passive. It’s that humanity in general is far more helpless than it realizes. It’s mankind in general that’s the damsel in distress; mankind in general that sits weeping in a tower, waiting for the savior to come. Women’s lives show this reality in high relief, largely because of our biology, and so women tend to realize much sooner than men that none of us is really in control of their lives. On a good day, we’re in charge of slightly changing the trajectory of little chunks of life as they fly past us. Freedom very often consists not in choosing what will happen to us, but in choosing how to respond to what happens to us.
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And that sounds very much like what Joseph knew. He listened, a lot. He decided, out of love, not to fight things that had already come to pass. He worked with the system as long as he could, and when it wasn’t working, he gathered his family and ran away. He was willing to play a supporting role. He decided not to insist on taking what he could reasonably argue was rightfully his. And he was silent. In other words, Joseph’s behavior in the Gospels is like what we today normally think of as feminine — trusting, waiting, nurturing, self-sacrificial, chaste, modest, and quiet. This may account for how weirdly effeminate he looks in so much religious art, and it probably accounts in part for Marshall’s weird attempt to put Mary’s fiat in Joseph’s hands: Because he doesn’t behave in a way that checks off boxes in our modern understanding of masculinity.
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We get St. Joseph wrong because we grasp that he is not what we commonly think of as masculine; but correct our mistake by assigning to him what we wrongly think of as feminine, or by refusing to face how wrong we are about what it means to be feminine. Mary’s behavior is what we should think of as feminine; but it’s so hard to grasp that we saddle her with a simpering passivity, turning her into a virgin too fragile to deal with men, rather than a virgin strong enough to deal with God.
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[S] ex and gender have to be understood first as cosmic paradigms. So, “feminine” doesn’t mean “like a woman.” It’s the other way around. A woman is someone who embodies the eternal archetype of femininity. But she won’t do it completely, because she’s an instantiation [a representative of an actual example], not the archetype itself. She’s a particular, not a universal. Also, her instantiation of the feminine will filter itself through her personality, through tradition, through society, etc. For these two reasons, you can’t pin down any one characteristic that every woman has. Any time you try to say what characteristics women have, you’ll find exceptions (often me).
However, if you start from the archetype, and say (for example) that the feminine archetype involves the taking of the other into the self, then you can conclude that every woman is cosmically called to do this as well as and in whatever way she can. So the point is not to say what women are like, but what their vocation is.
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Taylor Marshall and his ilk are rightly angry that McCarrick and others have so smeared and ravaged human sexuality with their crimes and perversions. But Marshall’s brutal, puerile urge to squash all men and all women into small and clearly defined boxes of masculinity or femininity is, in its way, just as disastrous. More than one abused woman has told me that, early on in her marriage, before the beatings began, her pious Catholic husband railed at her for not being sufficiently archetypically feminine, as if any one woman could or should be. As if he had married womankind, rather than an actual person. This is the trap Marshall et al fall into: They want individual human beings to be the embodiment of all of their sex (“all seminarians must be masculine”); but since no one can or should achieve that, they reduce an archetypal reality to a few small, individualistic traits, and then rage at anyone who doesn’t reduce himself to those traits, as if they’ve failed at being human.
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It’s a way of making sense of the world, and it’s intensely depersonalizing. We do not love by making what is large small, and we do not love by railing at what is small for not being as large as the whole universe. But people who behave this way don’t think they’re being cruel to individual people; they think they’re being noble by upholding ontological truths. But first they have to squash those ontological truths into bite-sized pieces.
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Dressed up as respect for God’s creation, this way of thinking turns men and women away from our vocation, which is, in our particular ways, to be open to God: To be feminine in relation to God.
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Yes, that looks different for men and for women, and it looks different for for one particular women compared to another, and one particular man compared to another; but in some very broad way, this is the true feminine, what both Joseph and Mary did.
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I saw it myself yesterday, dozens of times, at Mass, at the Eucharist, men and women. They walked up to the front with all the burdens and glories of their particularities, and then opened up to receive God. How? Because He alone can take ontological truths and make them, as it were, bite-sized. He has made small what is larger than then universe, larger than masculine and feminine. Love makes itself small. Never to make others small.
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Our vocation is to be open like Mary and open like Joseph, and neither one of the two of them look like anything I’ve ever seen before on this earth, except in brief flashes like at the altar rail. Hell if I know what it means. My kids were asking me about the Second Coming today, and all I could say was everyone who thinks they know what they are talking about is in for a surprise.
This week, we ate like kings! Kings who should look around for a new menu planner.
SATURDAY Brats and chips
Nothing to report. Brats are good.
SUNDAY Grilled chicken on baby spinach with feta, green apples, and pecans; potato latkes with sour cream
So when I was planning the menu last weekend, I forgot that it was Hanukkah week, so I didn’t really plan meals around Jewish food. Planning a meal around Jewish food is like choosing knick knacks when the middle of your room looks like this:
You’re not complaining, but you will not have a lot of extra space to work with, either.
Hanukkah food, in particular, is supposed to involve oil, to recall the miracle of the lamp oil that lasted eight days. So, latkes! You can make matzoh meal latkes or potato latkes. If you have a food processor, I strongly suggest potato. You shred them, mix it with a batter of egg, flour, salt and pepper, and fry them up in oil.
This recipe calls for making a pouch out of cheesecloth and letting it drain in a colander for half a hour, because potatoes give up a ton of water; but I was in a hurry, so I just gave each handful of potato batter a good squeeze before I put it in the oil, and they turned out lovely. I’ll write up a recipe card for the end.
We had them with sour cream and slices of apple.
Crisp and crunchy outside, tender and mealy inside. Perfect. I may make them again before Hanukkah is over. Can I just say, having no baby and not being pregnant is actually kind of exciting? I can, like, do things.
MONDAY Grilled ham, cheese, and apple sandwiches
Always a favorite. I had two green apples left, so I sliced them nice and thin. Sourdough bread, cheddar cheese, ham, apples with the skin on, and more cheese, with mayo on the outside of the bread,
and grilled lightly in butter.
Listen, we’re bulking up for winter. Must stay warm. Pickles help, too.
TUESDAY Kielbasa with roast red potatoes and cabbage
A super easy one-pan meal from Damn Delicious. Chop the potatoes, chop the kielbasa, slice the cabbage. Everything gets some olive oil, salt, and pepper, pop it in the oven, flip it once, back in the oven, and that’s it.
The balsamic mustard sauce recipe she gives is too oily for my tastes, so I used my own proportions, which the kids pronounced “too mustardy.”
WEDNESDAY Carnitas, guacamole, beans and rice
I put a pork shoulder in the slow cooker with beer, salt and pepper, chili powder, and adobo peppers. When it was done, I pulled away the fat and shredded it, then browned it up under the broiler with some of the peppers, plus plenty of salt, pepper, cumin, chili powder.
The beans and rice and guac were a little bland, but it was a decent meal anyway. Recipe cards at the end.
THURSDAY Um, fish tacos, shrimp tacos, and knishes; tortilla chips
Remember, I had forgotten it was Hanukkah when I planned the menu. Normally I make fish tacos with frozen fish, shredded cabbage, avocado, cilantro, and lime juice. I had all that, and Damien also said he would cook up some shrimp if it was on sale, which it was. He mixed up the shrimp with a tablespoon of garlic powder, a little chili powder, salt, and lime juice, and sautéed it in olive oil with red pepper flakes. Yuhm.
And then Dora decided she wanted to spend her day off making knishes (which are little sort of dense dumpling snacks with filling and dough. I’m most familiar with a sort of mashed potato and onion filling and a fried, crusty wrapper, but there are tons of variations). She’s at work at the moment, but I’ll get her recipe when she gets home.
I warned her that knishes are not to be undertaken lightly, either to cook or to eat. I can still taste the last knish I had, which was back in 2016. Well, she did it anyway, and it took, like, seven hours. You have to make the filling, make the dough, roll the dough, fill it, roll it up, cut it up, wrap them, and then cook them. She used a baked knish recipe, which I had never heard of. And she made . . . eighty four of them?
They were super (and yes, that is one of my alert children giving the knishes bunny ears for the camera). Quite different from knishes of my past, so a new kind of delicious. I had mine with the balsamic mustard sauce from the other night. L’chaim! I’m eating two more as I type.
FRIDAY Pasta
The high school kids have the day off, and guess what Clara’s doing? Making mini apple pies. I think this is what they meant by “your children will rise up and bless you.”
Serve with sour cream and/or apple sauce for Hanukkah or ANY TIME. Makes about 25+ latkes
Ingredients
4lbspotatoes, peeled
6eggsbeaten
6Tbspflour (substitute matzoh meal for Passover)
salt and pepper
oil for frying
Instructions
Grate the potatoes. Let them sit in a colander for a while, if you can, and squeeze out as much liquid as possible.
Mix together the eggs, salt and pepper, and flour. Stir into the potato mixture and mix well.
Turn the oven on to 350 and put a paper-lined pan in the oven to receive the latkes and keep them warm while you're frying.
Put 1/4 to 1/2 and inch of oil in your frying pan and heat it up until a drop of batter will bubble.
Take a handful of the potato mixture, flatten it slightly, and lay it in the pan, leaving room between latkes. Repeat with the rest of the mixture, making several batches to leave room in between latkes. Fry until golden brown on both sides, turning once. Eat right away or keep warm in oven, but not too long.
Serve with sour cream and/or applesauce or apple slices.
It’s Advent. I’m very aware that it’s Advent. I don’t want things to be business as usual on the Catholic internet. So please believe me: I thought long and hard about how to approach this topic usefully, rather than just stirring up anger.
Last night, Catholic News Service tweeted out a “Happy Hanukkah” message “to those who celebrate.” Here’s a screenshot:
One problem: That’s an image of Roman soldiers carrying off loot from the Temple they desecrated. So yes, there is a menorah in the picture. No, that doesn’t make it appropriate for Hanukkah, any more than it would be appropriate to tweet out, “Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!” along with a photo of Herod slaughtering the innocents, or a lion mauling some martyrs, or maybe just a straight up crucifixion picture. It’s a depiction of one of the darkest moments in Jewish history.
One wag on Twitter had the same thought:
After several people immediately chastised CNS for their image choice, they deleted the tweet and posted this:
Which . . . was not great. It puts the onus on “many of our followers” for having been offended, rather than saying, “We posted something terrible, and we’re terribly sorry.” There was more backlash, and this morning, they posted this:
I do believe the original image choice was inadvertent. I do believe it’s possible that some overworked or lazy social media manager simply Googled “menorah” and thought, “ooh, that one looks classy” and went with it. Dumb stuff happens, and I’m willing to believe the photo choice was not a veiled threat against Jews, despite how it appeared.
The barely-an-apology apology is harder to get past. The follow-up apology is better, although it puts the blame a single person, even though the tweet went out under the CNS name; but I feel a dreary certainty that CNS learned the lesson “Jewish people are touchy” rather than the much more important lesson, which is this:
Antisemitism is in the Church.
Catholics who aren’t antisemites are obligated to reject even the smallest hint of it, whenever it turns up.
Even if it was unintentional; even if it seems minor; even if it seems to gentiles like an isolated, meaningless incident that can be explained away if everyone would just calm down. Even if the antisemite does other good things or is an effective fundraiser for Catholic causes.
If we don’t step up and say something every single time, then those who really are malicious become more bold, and ideas that once pushed the envelope become commonplace.
CNA named George Soros as the originator of the funding, and then devoted eight paragraphs of their article to the funding angle. But the funding was not, in fact, from George Soros, and even if it had been, Morson was unaware of the grant and did not receive it until after the story was published. Her editors clarified:
The grant was made eight years before Morson started writing her story. The putative connection to George Soros was, in short, imaginary. Moreover, even if it had existed, it would not have been newsworthy, much less deserving of eight paragraphs.
So, maybe the CNA reporter, and the editor who okayed the story, simply didn’t know the name “Soros” is an anti-semitic dogwhistle. That happens.
But after Morson and several others told them what “Soros” means to so many people, they defended their story. They added a paragraph noting that Morson was not aware of the origin of the funding; but they retained the eight paragraphs noting the alleged source of funding. It’s hard to understand why that information was relevant unless CNA wanted readers to believe the source of funding affected the reporting itself.
Well. Still. Why is this worth bringing up? Why can’t we just give the benefit of the doubt to Catholics who do good work otherwise? Why are Jews so damn touchy?
Because there are so many Catholics of bad will. Because anti-semitism is once again gaining ground in the Church, just as it is everywhere else. Anti-semitic attacks in the U.S. have surged 57% in the last year alone. If you think those attacks only happen outside the Church, just ask any public person with a Jewish-sounding last name. Stroll by the wrong hornet’s nest, and the anti-semitism comes swarming out, sometimes disguised as piety, sometimes proudly acknowledging itself for what it is.
Does anti-semitism exist only in Catholic circles? Of course not. But when it does exist there, it’s every Catholic’s job to stamp it out in horror. Catholics of good will are obligated to be especially careful to utterly reject even the hint of antisemitism, before it gains strength.
But they’re not. They’re not stamping it out, and they’re not learning to be careful. And when they’re not careful, those without good will consistently amplify dogwhistles, whether they were originally intentional or not. The Catholic Crisis Magazine followed Catholic News Agency’s “I spy George Soros” cue and gleefully doubled down on the imaginary Soros-Morson connection with an article titled “The Soros-Funded Attacks on Orthodox Catholic Universities.” The word “attacks” is plural because the author, Austin Ruse, included my Christendom articles in this category of attack. It is common knowledge that I am Jewish.
My articles were, of course, in no way funded by George Soros, and were in no way part of a coordinated attack. But that’s not relevant, if you know your readership. And Crisis does.
In other words, they said: We are not antisemitic. But you should know that this evil article was written by a Jew.
Because this kind of thing is tolerated, because people want to pretend it’s not happening, the authors grow more bold. Austin Ruse, the author of the Crisis article fallaciously linking Morson to Soros, recently said this on Twitter of his nephew, who is an “Elder” in the Proud Boys.
Men have tried being ashamed of themselves and accepting blame for slavery, the wage gap, ableism, and some fag-bashing that went on two generations ago, but it didn’t work. So they’re going with their gut and indulging in the natural pride that comes from being part of the greatest culture in the world. It’s very freeing to finally admit the West is the best. That’s because it’s the truth.
This is the organization that brings Austin Ruse such familial pride.
Of course, it’s all about context and nuance, when you’re marching through the streets with torches.
John Zmirak in 2016 reissued his Politically Incorrect Guide to Catholicism. He’s gone on the record rejecting anti-semitism, which is bold. Was that before or after he worked for the white nationalist publication VDARE, including this Christmas essay, which is essentially a chattier version of the 14 words? Before or after he recorded at least one giggly interview, now mysteriously vanished, with neo-Nazi Richard Spencer? If he’s repented, the man has some public reparation to catch up on.
I don’t like guilt by association. I don’t like punishing people for failing to expunge every possible hint of unsavory connections from their public past. But I’m also no fool. I know that evildoers count on the cover given them by the naiveté, the timidity, the mistaken charitable intentions of decent people.
Jewish writers will tell you that anti-semitic insults and threats from people calling themselves “Catholic” are commonplace. Gentiles have told me they have no idea such a thing happens. So I’m telling you: It happens all the time. My family has received numerous explicitly anti-semitic threats of violence from people calling themselves Catholic. After years of writing for Catholic publications, it doesn’t even raise eyebrows anymore. It’s routine.
Guys, the Catholic people and publications I named are only ones I happened to have come into contact with recently, and so their names popped into my head. They are the tip of the iceberg.
I am exhausted. I am exhausted with extending good will where it is neither desired nor deserved. I am exhausted with taking the high road, telling myself people simply didn’t know any better, they simply travel in different circles, they simply don’t realize what it’s like to be Jewish. I am exhausted with arguing with myself over whether I’m overreacting or not, whether I’ll make things better or worse by saying something.
And I am exhausted with trying to persuade myself, “No one is listening to these fringe figures anyway, and I’m just boosting their signal if I respond.”
People are listening to these fringe figures. They’re becoming less fringe as people listen. My children walk through the halls of a public school where swastikas are scrawled by self-described “rednecks” who think “oven” jokes are just some snarky fun. Down the road from us is a traditionalist Catholic Church that has preserved the beautiful and reverent music and liturgy my family craves — and which teaches its children that the Jews are here to infiltrate and subvert the Church from within. It’s not dying out on its own. New generations are being raised on casual or even ardent antisemitism, and Catholics are letting it happen.
Jews ought to be able to count on Catholics to reject antisemitism with vigorous revulsion, because that is what Catholics are for: defending the vulnerable, defending the truth, defending our Faith which is inextricable from its Jewish roots.
Instead, we hear excuses: We didn’t realize. It was an honest mistake. We’re sorry you were offended. Let’s not jump to conclusions. But they do so much good otherwise. Just ignore them, and maybe they’ll go away.
Or: It’s Advent. Can’t we take a break from thinking about this stuff? It’s Advent!
And during Advent, Jewish Mary and her Jewish baby boy fled for their lives. During Advent, Jews all over the world are in danger, and their danger increases when Catholics pretend they don’t see antisemitism in their ranks. It is here. I, a Jew, a mother of Jews, am asking you, if you’re a writer, an editor, a social media manager; if you book speakers or hire teachers; if you’re in charge of choosing curriculum; if you are active on social media; if you are a priest, if you influence other people:
Please see this cancer on the Body of Christ for what it is. Name it as evil, every single time, and keep it from spreading.
According to tradition, I skipped the Friday-After-the-Thursday-That-Is-Thanksgiving food post, because guess what we had? Turkey. Guess what it looked like? Turkey! Now you know.
Here’s what we had this week, including two meals with leftover turkey:
SATURDAY Brats, sausages, and onions three ways
Damien made supper and it got away from him in the way that weekend suppers sometimes will. Everybody liked it, but there was no denying it was brats, sausages, raw onions, peppers and onions, and then other onions. And chicken tenders!
It was so much onions, the vampires were like, “You know what, close enough. We’ll just wait outside.”
SUNDAY Turkey bacon Welsh rabbit
I’ve always been curious about Welsh rabbit. Turns out it’s basically just toast with a savory cheese sauce. We had sliced turkey, naturally, and I got some thick bacon, and I figured it couldn’t miss. I got some thick rye-pumpernickel swirl bread and made the cheese sauce using Alton Brown’s recipe, which calls for Worcestershire sauce, mustard, and beer.
Well, it was doomed from the start. Half the kids were upset because they thought there was rabbit in it, and the other half were upset because there wasn’t. The food itself was tasty, but . . . I don’t know, it’s possible I was still full from gorging myself like a monster over the weekend, and I just didn’t want a whole lot of savory cheese sauce.
Oh well. Oh Welsh.
MONDAY Turkey enchiladas and tortilla chips
The last of the leftover turkey. I shredded the meat and mixed it up with plenty of chili powder, pepper, and cumin. We are always low on onions for enchiladas, so Dora prepped an avalanche of onions for me before she went to work. I cooked those down (to lazy to wait for them to caramelize, because it would have taken twelve years).
Normally I sort of dredge the tortillas in enchilada sauce, then add meat, onions, and cheese from separate bowls to each one, and roll them up. This time, I mixed the turkey and onions all together, threw in a few cans of drained diced roasted tomatoes, and heated it up together, then spooned the mixture onto the tortillas and added cheese. If this is wrong in some way, I don’t care.
I poured the rest of the enchilada sauce on top of the rolled enchiladas, threw the last of the cheese on, and chunked it in the oven. I had sour cream and some cilantro to top it. Scallions are better, but I lost them. I like the green sauce better than the red.
So, I have tried enchilada lasagna/casserole before, where you have all the same ingredients in there, but layered, rather than wrapped. It is easier, for sure, but I just didn’t enjoy eating it the same way. Maybe it’s some latent cannibalistic instinct, but I really like eating things that look like something’s sleeping inside.
Which is ironic, considering a really awful story involving a surprise dead mouse which I will not relate at this time.
They were pretty good enchiladas. I made a bunch with red sauce and a bunch with green. I felt like I could still detect a ghost of stuffing and yams under the chili powder and cumin, but I may have been imagining that. For one thing, we did not have yams this year.
Actually, I got confused and completely messed up the direction. I fried the bacon, then added flour to the bacon grease, then added the vegetables; and then I got confused and just threw everything else in together and cooked it until the potatoes were soft. Oh, and cream at the end. Tasted good to me.
The kids moaned and groaned as if I were serving them castor oil on sandpaper. I suggested that, if they didn’t like soup, there were plenty of leftover enchiladas. But they didn’t like the enchiladas, either. What a fwiggin shame. Look at me crying.
I had that soup for lunch the rest of the week. At one point, I opened the fridge and discovered that they had put the soup pot in the fridge, covered it loosely with plastic wrap, then put a small plate of enchiladas on top of the pot, and then A GALLON JUG OF MILK ON TOP OF THAT.
Savages. Savages. Barely even human. I fished the enchiladas out and ate the soup anyway. Savages.
I had forgotten to plan a side for this meal, so I threw the potato salad together in a hurry, and it was a little weird. I diced the potatoes before cooking them, to speed it up, and then I made a dressing with mayo, cider vinegar (why? We had white vinegar), pepper, and too much sugar. We were out of celery, and a bad child came in and persuaded me to use celery salt, even though I knew that was a bad idea. I also forgot to add eggs. I put in some diced red onions just to give it a little crunch. It was just kind of metallic-tasting, plus too sweet. I added more mayo, so then it was gloppy and metallic. I can decent make potato salad, but this wasn’t it.
Then there was this.
THURSDAY Cumin chicken and chickpeas with lemony onions, pita, yogurt sauce, and pomegranates
A very fine meal. I set the chicken to marinate in the morning, sliced the onions, and made up the yogurt sauce. (More detailed instructions here.) My kitchen is so cold, I didn’t need to refrigerate anything [*feeble cheering sound*]. Then it was pretty quick to put the rest together an hour before supper. I had to practically grab my family by the lips and force them to say it was good, but they did say it.
It’s technically a one-pan meal,
but you do really want extra yogurt sauce, and you do want those lemony onions. And have mercy, you do want to make the marinade and give it a few hours, because look at that chicken skin:
I had a pretty good time with those pomegranates, too.
Ha cha cha!
FRIDAY I guess bagels and eggs?
Why I ever cook anything more than this for these ungrateful crumbs, I don’t know.
