Borders: gone to that big, happy Mega-Mart in the sky

I recently read “Gone with the Wind” for the third time, only this time on my e-reader. Remember when Rhett Butler says, “What most people don’t seem to realize is that there is just as much money to be made out of the wreckage of a civilization as from the upbuilding of one”? This reminds me of the demise of Borders, a beloved institution of my childhood even though it didn’t necessarily deserve to be. I’m sincerely sad that I’ll no longer be able to browse the shelves of this roomy, quiet, coffee-scented store, making a mental note of titles I want to order from Amazon when I get home. But I’m also a little bit happy, because I can take advantage of the going-out-of-business sale! I’m holding out for now, while fiction is still only 10% off. Give it a couple of weeks, as Rhett Butler would have; there’s money to be saved here.

I’m wondering if the same people who hated large chain bookstores because they took out the little guys—small, independent booksellers—are now mourning the defeat of Borders by an even greater “evil:” Amazon. But it’s my guess that business will suddenly start picking up in the couple of tiny bookstores in the area that are still managing to hold on. I like Cathy’s Half-Price Books in Havertown, for instance. They do a lot of their selling online, but they also have a store large enough to spend an hour or so browsing current or classic gently-used books, and I suspect they will fill the gap Borders is going to leave, at least for me. Another local used bookstore, which is a bit of a hike but makes an interesting day trip is the Book Barn in West Chester, housed in a 19th century dairy barn with many tiny rooms and corridors to explore. The owners are a nice couple with an impeccably behaved Jack Russell terrier (an oxymoron, no?) who trots up and down the halls and could be persuaded to politely sniff a visitor’s hand while wagging his stub tail. The people at little stores like this are not just willing to point you in the right direction—they are thrilled to talk about books, to recommend titles, and to share your excitement in their merchandise.

I never encountered much service at Borders. It was pretty much a revolving door for employees, except for one cashier who speaks in a Monty Python accent in order to keep in practice for the Renaissance Faire season. Once I tried to return a duplicate copy of a “Chicken Soup for the Soul” book that I’d received as a gift, because even one copy was too many, thanks very much, and this woman offered me a lecture on the real meaning of Christmas. “Dearie,” she concluded, “remember: it’s the thought that counts, you know. Now pop off!” And she handed me back the unwanted book, accompanied by a “begone-with-ye” flourish of the fingertips. I was pissed off, and ended up just selling “Chicken Soup” to Cathy’s Half-Price Books. In an odd way, I’ll miss this clerk, with her dorky looped braids and annoying mannerisms. She lived and breathed Borders, which wasn’t always a good thing, and I wonder where she’ll find her next job. I can only hope it isn’t at Cathy’s.

Opera Night (insert air quotes if reading aloud)

I thought it was opera night at the Rose Tree Park amphitheater, where free concerts are held through the week all summer long. On this night, members of a community group get up and perform solos from famous operas. I hoped to see a castrato. In the 18th century, around 4,000 boys were castrated annually for the sake of art. Are such barbarous practices still in place? I hoped so. I spread my beach blanket as close to the stage as I could, which merely meant that I could not get up and leave without being rude when it turned out that opera night wasn’t tonight after all. It’s tomorrow, and I’m majorly bummed.

What was playing tonight? A concert band, performing standards, show tunes, and the mandatory George M. Cohan tribute. If you have been reading this blog for a couple of weeks, you’ll remember my previous run-in with a George M. Cohan tribute, which was difficult to escape. This has been the summer of George; I wonder how many more times I will hear “45 Minutes from Broadway” before the end of August?

There was nothing left to do but chill out politely and entertain myself by watching people, because there are often some unusual characters hanging out at Rose Tree Park free concerts. For instance, at Beatlemania last year, I was mesmerized by a woman who performed orchestrated, rhythmic hand movements for her own enjoyment while singing along to Beatles favorites in a piercing soprano. (I particularly enjoyed her hand-choreography for “Blackbird.”) At the fake Johnny Cash show last week, the teenager in front of me performed the Charleston alone while making realistic train whistle sounds by blowing into her cupped fist. But what are you going to do when a concert band starts playing Flight of the Bumblebees? Are you going to jump around and get excited about it? I’ve heard Flight of the Bumblebees approximately 5,000 times before, and I’ve only been alive for just under 22 years. In other words, the audience wasn’t dancing or doing anything weird/obnoxious—they simply weren’t motivated.

I did have one very strange sighting, depicted below: someone had brought a beach towel expressly for their banana. I watched the banana the whole time, and no one claimed it or moved it. I wonder if the banana enjoyed the show as much as I did.

Note: perhaps this isn’t as weird as I previously thought.

I made this picture black and white, because it is a color scheme that inspires jealousy in others. "You WISH you were black and white at this concert, like me."

I was a Reborn Baby

This feels suspiciously like real human hair...

Don’t ask me why, while browsing online, I stumbled across some footage from a British news channel depicting a national obsession with Reborn babies—dolls so lifelike that if placed next to an actual child, you might not be able to tell the difference aside from the rise and fall of the real infant’s chest. The deadpan news reporter gently rocked a doll in the nursery of a woman who had “adopted” 20 or so such babies, treating them as real children and even taking them for walks in the stroller, er, perambulator. “If I could have had more children, I would have,” the woman said sadly, as she passed snacks to her four live offspring while jiggling a Reborn baby at her hip. The location then shifted to the home of a doll artist, who removed a baby’s head and forearms from her kitchen oven before beginning to paint the scalp with lifelike veins.

Sure, all of this was pretty funny. But these dolls, which are popular in the US too, can sell for thousands of dollars. And suddenly, I stopped laughing. Because I remembered that I owned one. Sort of.

About 20 years ago when I was a toddler, my grandmother had a baby doll made to look like me, and she saved it to give me when I was old enough to appreciate it. The day never came. Dolls were boring, and somewhere along the line, they became creepy. After that, they became sad. When a friend and I sold our childhood dolls at a joint yard sale (all of them in un-played with condition) the somewhat manic woman who purchased them assured us she would give them “a good home” in her doll room which was “stacked floor to ceiling with precious angels.” It was none of my concern what she did with them—I had made five bucks on each doll, and that was enough for me. But she was so earnest that I thanked her for letting me know they would be in good hands. And I was filled with a wave of pity for her, for caring. At this same yard sale, a scandalized customer scolded me for selling my First Communion jewelry, but then she bought it all from me. I can give a pretty convincing sales pitch, and I am very mercenary.

Eventually my grandmother did turn the Shannon doll over to me, though with less ceremony than might have taken place had I liked getting such things, and I packed it away carefully in a box. But which box? I tore apart every storage space in my house looking for it. Perhaps I was sitting on a gold mine! I came across boxes of other toys that were potentially valuable, yet not my style anymore—for example, a bunch of Breyers—they are collectible plastic horses with realistic paint jobs and in-scale miniature saddles. Do you want some? They’re for sale. When I finally found the doll, it turned out to be not quite as realistic as a Reborn baby, though still probably worth something to a doll collector. If I could find that woman from the yard sale again, she’d be perfect—after all, this doll is ME, author of this blog, and I can’t just let it go to some sicko. Maybe I’ll keep it for sentimental value. It may seem out of place in the minimalist décor of my future super-cool apartment, but perhaps I can display it ironically next to a salvaged neon sign that says Live Girls! On one of those floating shelves.

That settles it, the Shannon doll is not for sale. But the following items ARE. See pics below. If you are interested, please submit a sealed bid.

1. A plastic cannon from Barnum and Bailey Circus that shoots out a little man. I expect this to appreciate in value, as Water for Elephants has ruined the circus forever, and soon we’ll be talking about the Ringling Brothers like we talk about Dr. Walter Freeman, originator of the ice pick lobotomy.

2. A turtle finger puppet.

3. A Breyer model of Roy Rogers’ horse, Trigger. Did you know that when the real Trigger died, Roy Rogers had the horse embalmed and placed in his living room? You didn’t?

4. Assorted Star Wars PEZ dispensers. Note: the candy has been eaten.

I'm not the man they think I am at home, no no no nooo, I'm a Rocket Man!

Yoda appears to be unhappy with the sleeping arrangements. "Chewie, I didn't know YOU carried a lightsaber."

Philadelphia’s Magic Gardens

Yesterday, on my way home from a job interview in a scary and shiny financial district building, I happened by the Magic Gardens on South Street, which made me considerably happier. If you’ve never seen the Magic Gardens, they are half a city block of mosaic tilework created by Isaiah Zagar. Stroll by–you’ll see anything from rusty bike parts to the legs of old action figures cemented into this labyrinth of visual interest. The overall effect is as serene as an ordinary, plant-filled garden. And, like a garden, this giant installation is organic, changing as the sun filters through the many glass bottles or as the components become weathered. Pretty cool, and made with trash! I like art that celebrates the ugly as well as the ideal.

That’s why, *meanness alert,* I’m not a huge fan of photography blogs like one I just saw on Freshly Pressed. I won’t give the name of it, but it consisted of admittedly breathtaking shots of a woman’s gorgeous, matching children out and about in a lot of precious boutiques and stylish bistros. In one shot, the mom pinches an ice cream cone in an impeccably-manicured hand, presumably passing it to a child. The focus is on the manicure, and the pinching. Also the perfection of the ice cream scoop, each fleck of vanilla bean frosting over—mmm. What a well-regimented set of children, in their matching accessories (accessories?!) accepting non-drippy cones from Mom and posing artfully next to a reclaimed barn-wood lunch counter. I don’t really have a point, just that it makes me sad to see a kid dressed in Crewcuts by J.Crew. I have this dumb opinion that kids should be wearing their Spongebob pajamas because their dad didn’t feel like doing the laundry, and running around in a garden of mosaic trash and treasure with ice cream all over their faces.

Maybe this means I subconsciously do not want to be a well-dressed person inside an office just yet. Oh well, my kid-o-meter is rapidly running out. Check out these pics I lifted from Google images because I don’t have my own. (Is that allowed?)

Another thing: it's $2 for kids under twelve to get in, and free under 6

I like my e-reader, so sue me

I remember the first time I ever heard of the Kindle, as a freshman in college. A professor brought it up in class, saying this was the future of publishing. “Before we know it,” he said, “there will be computers implanted directly into our brains and we’ll be able to read books just by sitting and thinking about them.” I was horrified, and I vowed I would never be a traitor to the printed page.

An important part of the reading experience for me was sensory: turning the leaves of my book while inhaling fresh paper. I was also a neurotic corner-rubber, unable to concentrate unless accompanied by a crisp, high-decibel sound like popcorn popping. If I’ve read a book more than once, you can actually see daylight through the corners. I couldn’t imagine holding a plastic-framed device motionlessly in front of me. There was no scent, nothing to rub, and plus I couldn’t drop it in the bathtub by mistake and use a blow-dryer to save it, page by page.

More importantly, as a conscientious English major, I didn’t want to contribute to the demise of the print medium. What would Gutenberg say?* People had died in the name of printed material! I didn’t remember the specifics, but I knew actual wars had been started. I debated the Kindle question with many earnest, book-loving peers who swore they would never give up the historical wealth and tactile pleasures of wood pulp and ink. “Our grandchildren won’t even know what a paperback book is except from museums!” was our dooming consensus.

Then we all bought iPads and Kindles. Except me. I ended up with an off-brand e-reader, called a Literati, that has a battery life of about five minutes. It must be plugged into an outlet at all times while I am using it, like an archaic book-machine. I love it. Maybe it’s the inconvenience of it that doesn’t make me feel like a complete sell-out, that and the fact that I can get an e-book immediately and for half the price of its physical counterpart. Oh wait–paying less while forsaking principles is the definition of selling out, right? oops.

The best part of the Literati is that its well-lit screen compels me to speed through books I could never get through previously, such as Jane Austen’s romances. I tried to love these classics since I was twelve years old, giving them chance after chance in different seasons and settings, but only with my face lit up by the warm glow of my e-reader could I eagerly thumb-tap my way through Pride and Prejudice while actually caring if Elizabeth Bennett ever ended up with that guy, Darcy. The professor who first introduced the subject of e-readers so long ago would not have been surprised—“Humans are conditioned to be drawn to glowing sources,” I think he said. It’s why we sprawl out in the sun for too long.

So my e-reader was permitted to enter that exclusive inner circle of beloved electronics. Because I am too cheap and lazy to replace these often, they are out-of-date, worn, and contain among them an off-brand Walkman cassette player. In the four months that I’ve had the e-reader, I’ve read 30 books—probably twice the number of books I would have read otherwise. I’ve decided it’s a great thing, just as my grandmother—who thought a dishwasher was a foolish and unnecessary replacement for a Brillo scrubby and a pair of human hands—did an about-face when she bought a condo that came with one. She may even have used the phrase “changed my life.”

Now if someone gives me a “real” book, it’s hard to adapt to the old ways of reading, and I find myself subconsciously pressing the sides of the pages, waiting for them to flip. It’s a relief to return to the Literati. I dig it out from its nest among couch cushions, where I have left it to perform its ineffective battery charge. I settle in, and rest the cord on my shoulder so it can remain plugged into the wall while I read. And because I don’t have paper corners to rub between my fingers for concentration, I tap the ball of my thumb on the e-reader’s plastic body.

*I think Gutenberg would probably own a Literati, too.

Soul-sucking: free Slurpee day

Coca Cola and Alien

In honor of 7/11, it’s free Slurpee day at 7-11! Ordinarily, I would have had no interest in this event at all, but yesterday I cashed in my final jar of loose change at a CoinStar machine. It came to $46. So basically, $46 has to last me the rest of my life until I get a job, and I can’t afford to turn my nose up at free sugared slush. Besides, would you believe it, I’ve never had a Slurpee before! How can someone go through their entire life without tasting one of the staples of suburban childhood? It had something to do with Brendan Frazer “wheezing the juice,” or sticking his mouth under the Slurpee nozzle, in a terrible movie from the 90s called Encino Man. If you never saw this movie, forget I mentioned it. If you choose to add it to your Netflix queue, I bear no responsibility for your disgust.

Anyway, I waited in a long line behind a group of preteens who did not look to be above wheezing the juice. I figured I would stick with cherry, a pretty safe choice considering there was a limited-edition Alien flavor created especially for the burb rats repeatedly hip-checking each other into the beef jerky display. By the time it was my turn, horror of horrors, the little bastards had used up all the free cups. So I was forced to upgrade. I tentatively selected a cup and stuck it under the cherry nozzle. But instead of a thick icy stream, I got warm red liquid. I was just going to go along with it, but then I couldn’t get the lid to stay on my cup. Red crap sloshed everywhere as the sticky lid popped off into my hand repeatedly.

Enter Slurpee troubleshooter. An intelligent man who probably has a degree from IITB in, like, computer troubleshooting, he works all day in his dad’s 7-11 keeping the Slurpee machines from clogging up and preventing deviant children from stealing all the straws. Slowly and patiently, he explained that you have to affix the domed plastic lid onto your cup before you proceed to fill it with frosty goo in colors insulting to nature. Hence, the hole the size of a Slurpee nozzle on the top of the lid. Ah. He kindly allowed me to throw my sticky cup away and start fresh.

There really was something wrong with the cherry, though. “But Alien looks okay,” the Slurpee tech said, pulling the lever to test it. Yup, Alien was ok. And because I was put on the spot, I allowed him to fill the cup with a blue substance the same shade as the carpet cleaner I use when my dog throws up. What’s more, I made myself say, “mmmmmm,” like I was looking forward to it.

El Cheap

I used to think cooking was antifeminist unless a man (or my culinary genius grandma) was doing it, a convenient little prejudice when you’re a person who meets with disaster when trying to make, say, banana bread. True story. If engineers were to test my banana bread, they would find adequate building materials, with a hardness rivaling adobe, but little that was edible. I don’t really want to use the “burnt water” cliché, but, well. True story.

Lately, though, my viewpoint has changed. It has everything to do with my love of really good Mexican food, which I can no longer afford. The last time I was at a good Mexican place—El Vez on South 13th St.—a friend and I were astonished by a bill that came to almost $100 for tacos, guacamole, and a couple of, honestly, the best mojitos I ever had. I should have taken it as a warning when the server didn’t card me for the mojito—they don’t do that to you in establishments that charge $100 for tacos and guacamole. I guess it isn’t considered polite. Another tipoff: the restaurant’s website was funky and creative, like they actually had to pay someone to design it.

Anyway, El Vez is fun and delicious, and even though I knew I could not replicate the “fun,” I figured I could make some headway on the “delicious,” which has mostly to do with the use of very fresh ingredients. Not to get all Martha Stewart-y, but I just happened to have some fresh herbs growing in a container. Ok, I bought them on purpose. Each plant cost less than three dollars and promised to provide me with fresh ingredients all summer. I got cilantro, parsley, and mint, all of which are necessary for the three delicious recipes I’m about to provide. They will be somewhat unorthodox recipes, since I don’t feel like trying to figure out the proportions of everything. Just use some common sense, and keep tasting everything until you like it. For instance, the salsa didn’t taste quite right at first, so I added a little bit of orange juice and I suddenly couldn’t keep my chips out of the bowl.

Note: I’ll leave tacos alone, for now. I really don’t want to get into making a homemade corn tortilla, like they do at El Vez, because frankly, it would be a disaster.

Here are all the ingredients you need.

Salsa

Finely chop an onion. Then chop some tomatoes, crushing them slightly as you chop. The reason I ended up crushing them was because my knife was dull, but it was okay because it released the juices. Chop up your fresh parsley and cilantro. Use enough of these two ingredients so that you have uniform green specks throughout. Drain and rinse a can of black beans. You may not wish to use the whole can; the amount you use should be in proportion to how much you like beans. Chop up a small jalapeno or half a large jalapeno, leaving the seeds in if you want the salsa to be hot. Add salt, pepper, and garlic. You can use fresh garlic if you have a wonderful invention that my dad introduced me to: a garlic mincer. If you don’t have a garlic mincer and are thus reduced to chopping it into tiny pieces yourself, know that you will never succeed; they sell jars of minced garlic, and that works too. Add a tiny bit of orange juice or lime. Let the favors combine overnight if you can wait that long.

Guacamole

The avocados come last here—otherwise, they turn an unappetizing corpse-gray—so don’t jump the gun and begin peeling them immediately, though it’s tempting. This starts out the same as the salsa. A chopped onion and a chopped tomato. Maybe you could just save some aside from your salsa, so you don’t have to chop twice? Then chop cilantro and jalapeno. Mince your garlic. “Hey,” you may be thinking, “this is the same recipe from above!” Well, almost, but this one doesn’t have black beans or orange juice.

The most important step in the guacamole is, of course, adding the avocados. Your avocados should be perfectly ripe. I read online that a perfectly ripe avocado has the same firmness as the cartilage of your nose, so I spent an inordinate amount of time in the produce department touching my nose while frantically squeezing fruits. It’s an anxiety-inducing experience, but after making guacamole a couple of times, you will know exactly what a ripe avocado feels like. If you can’t find three that feel like your nose, put them in a paper bag for a couple days to ripen.

When you’re ready, cut them in half and remove the pit, which is the most exciting part. Refer to the pictures below. Then scoop out the flesh, squeeze it with the juice of approximately 2/3 of a lime, and mash it up with the other stuff. I may have left out a few steps, but I’m sure it will turn out fine. Oh yeah, a pinch of salt too. You could add truffles too, like they do at El Vez, but I have no clue where to buy these.

To remove the pit, whack it bravely with a knife...

...then pull it out. This is oddly satisfying.

Minted iced tea

Make some iced tea. Wash some mint and put it in the tea. Always remember to write iced tea, not ice tea. Why? Because if you write it as ice tea, you’d be wrong.

Remember to strain out the mint leaves. This is so good with spicy food!

Peppermint oil=Christmas in July

I returned home from my Poconos trip yesterday, and my suffering began shortly after. I don’t mean to whine, but I have discovered via WebMD and other online means of self-diagnosis (cheaper than a doctor) that I have a worse reaction than most people to the sun. It’s genetic and torturous, and I’m barely even exaggerating.

This is what happened: I got moderately sunburned, and my nerve endings fried, causing subcutaneous itching—that’s itching below the surface of the skin, therefore unscratchable. I spent last night suffering while trying to remember all the good things I’ve heard about morphine drips, and debating the ER. Don’t laugh, because you don’t understand. A woman from the 2005 archive of a health forum understood—she defined this condition as “an itch so extreme it pinches you from the inside until you want to rip your skin off.” Another forum member described an itch so maddening that he drove recklessly, behaved crazily, and abused numerous substances in an effort to find relief, eventually crumpling on the floor of the ER in a drunken, sobbing heap. Another forum member sternly advised him against using alcohol to self-medicate.

Aren’t those outdated forums comforting? So many people with the same problems as you, seeking answers! Except, no one had provided an answer to those people from 2005. Were they still suffering? Had they discovered a remedy or cure?

On a one-page website which I’ll call vinegar.com, a woman touted vinegar’s magical anti-itch properties. “It’s a miracle,” she wrote. “My sunburn itch is cured!” So I doused myself with a bottle of it at around 5:30 this morning, and the result was that I was smelly but still itchy. The old standby, aloe lotion, didn’t do anything either. One answerer on Answers.com even suggested practically scalding yourself in a hot bath, which I wasn’t brave enough to try.

Then, finally, I came upon relief, and a heavenly chorus swelled. The deliverer was peppermint oil. Peppermint is quite potent, and in fact the bottle advises you to cautiously dilute it with olive oil if you MUST apply it to your skin. I poured a quarter of the bottle onto my body, undiluted, and repeated this throughout the day. The resulting deep, stinging numb rendered me crippled on the couch at first. But I got used to it. I acquired more peppermint oil. I am now typing from within a peppermint aura, my vision blurred by a peppermint haze. I smell like a Junior Mints factory, but I don’t itch. What the long-term consequences of peppermint oil are, I can’t say. Perhaps by tomorrow, my skin will have dissolved, forcing me to seek solutions from still other homeopathic forums and quack websites. But for now, I remain optimistic, invigorated, and, oddly, craving a candy cane.

The rules of My Farm

This game trumps Farmville, which bored me within fifteen minutes of starting my little plot of wilting digital radishes, probably because I’d played My Farm before. In My Farm, the world is at your disposal. You can only play on road trips through the countryside, which made it perfect for this vacation through Pennsylvania farmland. The game involves claiming actual elements of people’s farms and properties to plant/furnish your own farm. There’s no real winner, but it can get highly competitive. Here’s a sample scenario:

Ted: I call those cows for my farm!

Fred: Well, I call that cow barn for my farm.

Ted: I call that tractor for my farm.

Fred: I call that laborer driving the tractor for my farm.

Ted: You can’t do that.

Basically, when you play My Farm, anything goes. The goal is to have the most complete agriculturally and geographically diverse money-maker of a farm you can acquire on the same road trip. You can claim multiple vehicles, homes, animals, and shrubbery. You can claim bodies of water and whole forests. You can’t, however, claim the whole universe for your farm. And someone inevitably ruins the game by claiming “that farm for my farm.” So play the right way, people.

Yesterday, I could have claimed any number of natural splendors and oddities for my farm. Check out the pictures below of Boulder Field and the swimming lake at Hickory Run State Park.

A lake bed filled with boulders from the Ice Age

If I'd had appropriate footwear and a hand-carved hiking stick, I could have explored this field of sweltering hot rocks like the prepared people in this picture. Damn.

To think that I was walking barefoot among dozens of these guys like some kind of spider-whispering wood nymph, aka shoeless idiot

Ahh, lake water is so soothing to spider bites

the mountains make me hungry

Lately, all I can think about is food. It started with the fried alligator at Knoebel’s Grove, and ended with a massive Pennsylvania Dutch meal at the Kutztown Folk Festival. In between was a Pickle-on-a-stick from the Pickle Hut (or is it Pickle Haus) at Kutztown. What would Freud say about my love for pickles-on-a-stick? I actually had two, because they don’t make pickles like these back home. Garlicky, piquant, and best of all, on a stick! Then we got a really tasty Naked Chardonnay from Pinnacle Ridge vineyards–it’s naked because they don’t age it in oak barrels, making it fruity and light. Finally, some people were barbecuing out on the hotel deck, and I snagged some chicken when they weren’t looking. It was a full day of eating, but somehow I’m still not full. Oh well, check out the pics below.

This is how meals were served to inmates in the old Mauch Chunk jail; not big enough for everything I ate today

Alligator meat--the taste was a little swampy. Think, um, swamp chicken.

It was only a dollar for this pickle!

So many choices! This was one of about a dozen booths full of PA Dutch specialities. MMMMMM.

You won’t get the full Kutztown Folk Festival experience unless you are prepared to EAT. Yeah, there are square dancing demonstrations and homemade dolls that you can buy, but if you, like me, are not the square-dance-watching doll-buying kind, you must be willing to enjoy BOUNTIFUL FOOD. The meal below, which is not complete–more food came later–was prepared by the best cooks in the whole world: god-fearing, apron-wearing members of a Zionist church. Their small children served it all, panting and sweating as they ran back and forth with serving dishes. I felt a bit bad asking the little babies to fill up the mashed potato bowl. But not too bad, considering those potatoes were whipped with fresh parsley, cream, and tons of butter.

I ate this three times over, plus a wonderful but indescribable milk tart for dessert.