Ode to Cholent!

As if I didn't get enough people searching for "cholent" and getting to my blog, I thought I'd provide more reason for such searchers to end up here. Yes, while busy reading over Shabbos the most recent issue of Moment magazine, I happened upon a fascinating article about cholent with a great recipe. The part of the article that really sparked my interest, however, was some lines from a poem by Heinrich Heine called "Sabbath Princess."

It's a long poem, but believe me, it's worth reading, if only because the bits about cholent (called schalet in this poem) is pretty hilarious. Cholent as ambrosia? Oh yes.

And if cholent doesn't strike your fancy, check out their fascinating article on how Jews -- quite literally -- built Alaska.

Princess Sabbath

By Heinrich Heine (Trans. Margaret Armour)

IN Arabia’s book of fable We behold enchanted princes Who at times their form recover, Fair as first they were created.   The uncouth and shaggy monster         5 Has again a king for father; Pipes his amorous ditties sweetly On the flute in jewelled raiment.   Yet the respite from enchantment Is but brief, and, without warning,         10 Lo! we see his Royal Highness Shuffled back into a monster.   Of a prince by fate thus treated Is my song. His name is Israel, And a witch’s spell has changed him         15 To the likeness of a dog.   As a dog, with dog’s ideas, All the week, a cur, he noses Through life’s filthy mire and sweepings, Butt of mocking city Arabs;         20   But on every Friday evening, On a sudden, in the twilight, The enchantment weakens, ceases, And the dog once more is human.   And his father’s halls he enters         25 As a man, with man’s emotions, Head and heart alike uplifted, Clad in pure and festal raiment.   “Be ye greeted, halls beloved, Of my high and royal father!         30 Lo! I kiss your holy door-posts, Tents of Jacob, with my mouth!”   Through the house there passes strangely A mysterious stir and whisper, And the hidden master’s breathing         35 Shudders weirdly through the silence.   Silence! save for one, the steward (Vulgo, synagogue attendant) Springing up and down, and busy With the lamps that he is lighting.         40   Golden lights of consolation, How they sparkle, how they glimmer! Proudly flame the candles also On the rails of the Almemor.   By the shrine wherein the Thora         45 Is preserved, and which is curtained By a costly silken hanging, Whereon precious stones are gleaming.   There, beside the desk already Stands the synagogue precentor,         50 Small and spruce, his mantle black With an air coquettish shouldering;   And, to show how white, his hand is, At his neck he works—forefinger Oddly pressed against his temple,         55 And the thumb against his throat.   To himself he trills and murmurs, Till at last his voice he raises; Till he sings with joy resounding, “Lecho dodi likrath kallah!”         60   “Lecho dodi likrath kallah— Come, beloved one, the bride Waits already to uncover To thine eyes her blushing face!”   The composer of this poem,         65 Of this pretty marriage song, Is the famous minnesinger, Don Jehudah ben Halevy.   It was writ by him in honour Of the wedding of Prince Israel         70 And the gentle Princess Sabbath, Whom they call the silent princess.   Pearl and flower of all beauty Is the princess—not more lovely Was the famous Queen of Sheba,         75 Bosom friend of Solomon,   Who, Bas Bleu of Ethiopia, Sought by wit to shine and dazzle, And became at length fatiguing With her very clever riddles.         80   Princess Sabbath, rest incarnate, Held in hearty detestation Every form of witty warfare And of intellectual combat.   She abhorred with equal loathing         85 Loud declamatory passion— Pathos ranting round and storming With dishevelled hair and streaming.   In her cap the silent princess Hides her modest, braided tresses,         90 Like the meek gazelle she gazes, Blooms as slender as the myrtle.   She denies her lover nothing Save the smoking of tobacco; “Dearest, smoking is forbidden,         95 For to-day it is the Sabbath.   “But at noon, as compensation, There shall steam for thee a dish That in very truth divine is— Thou shalt eat to-day of schalet!         100   “Schalet, ray of light immortal! Schalet, daughter of Elysium!” So had Schiller’s song resounded, Had he ever tasted schalet,   For this schalet is the very         105 Food of heaven, which, on Sinai, God Himself instructed Moses In the secret of preparing,   At the time He also taught him And revealed in flames of lightning         110 All the doctrines good and pious, And the holy Ten Commandments.   Yes, this schalet’s pure ambrosia Of the true and only God: Paradisal bread of rapture;         115 And, with such a food compared,   The ambrosia of the pagan, False divinities of Greece, Who were devils ’neath disguises, Is the merest devils’ offal.         120   When the prince enjoys the dainty, Glow his eyes as if transfigured, And his waistcoat he unbuttons; Smiling blissfully he murmurs,   “Are not these the waves of Jordan         125 That I hear—the flowing fountains In the palmy vale of Beth-el, Where the camels lie at rest?   “Are not these the sheep-bells ringing Of the fat and thriving wethers         130 That the shepherd drives at evening Down Mount Gilead from the pastures?”   But the lovely day flits onward, And with long, swift legs of shadow Comes the evil hour of magic—         135 And the prince begins to sigh;   Seems to feel the icy fingers Of a witch upon his heart; Shudders, fearful of the canine Metamorphosis that waits him.         140   Then the princess hands her golden Box of spikenard to her lover, Who inhales it, fain to revel Once again in pleasant odours.   And the princess tastes and offers         145 Next the cup of parting also— And he drinks in haste, till only Drops a few are in the goblet.   These he sprinkles on the table, Then he takes a little wax-light,         150 And he dips it in the moisture Till it crackles and is quenched.

The Long-Promised Slam Video

I was elated to win the jDeal.com ambassadorship with my words of poetry, so, inspired by that, I decided to hit up a local slam poetry thing in Teaneck that I happened to spot on Twitter of all places. It turned out to be more of a poetry "reading" than a slam, but the girl before me did the serious memorized slam thing that I'm used to, and I got up and did my paper-read slams the best I could. I did two poems, and I give you one here. I used to have the first one I did memorized, and this one, in the video, as I mention, hasn't been read before. This is probably the fifth incarnation of the poem, but I think it went really well.

My next goal? Hitting up some slam poetry venues in New York City, where slam has been alive in well since 1989. Wish me luck!




Chavi Goes Slamming from Chaviva Galatz on Vimeo.

Your jDeal Ambassador!

For those who missed it, I blogged about this whole shibang here. Watch the video (there's poetry), and give me some love :)




jDeal.com Battle of the Bloggers! from Chaviva Galatz on Vimeo.

COMMENT! Love me, please?

Smattering of Poetry 'ull Do Ya!

I'm feeling a little hippie dippie over here, sitting outside sipping some coffee and enjoying the cooler version of "summer" in New Jersey. The breeze is spinning around and the sun is peeking through green leaves ... and I'm content. I'm relaxed. I'm enjoying the fresh air and my allergies haven't spiked. Color me happytastic.

On a private forum I sometimes frequent with friends from college, someone brought up the subject of poetry, and I remembered this one poet who I fell in love with eons ago named Daphne Gottlieb. Mind you her work can be a little ... colorful ... but her sentiments and style are just beautiful. I discovered her during my early college years, probably seven years ago, you guessed it right that she's Jewish. One of my favorite poems of hers is simple, poignant, and powerful. May it move you as much as it moves me.

the jewish atheist mother has her say

baby, there is no
god but
they'll kill you
for him.

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It kind of smacks you in the face and wakes you up, right? I also found this little treasure from 2008 on my old Livejournal (even when I had this blog, I still kept up the Livejournal for purposes of dreams and poems, so thank cheeses for that!).

This thrift store buy is the inspiration for the poem. 

i hadn't bought the box with this in mind (08-22-08)

the knickknack never used to sing before

the way it does now, with its big red bridges,
and the Bay in the background, but upon the
shelf the box still sits still, ever-so empty.
because memories were meant for the other,
one who said forever wasn't just a metaphor,
but now -- those words are distant and different.

so this little black lacquered vessel,
it is vexing me as i sip slumber slowly.
i could fill it with the words i whisper
between boy and girl normal when i'm wishing,
whisking myself away in fabricated fiction,
stories i dream, vast displays of affection,
figures intertwined in sheets, placing words like
"i love you" upon the earlobes of the other.

words that whip and twist likes wind through waves,
overflowing the little black box, sentiments seeping
into heart chambers, filling up the empty spaces,
making the small glossy bauble worth its weight in gold.

Memories, Nothing but Memories.

On the way down to Jersey yesterday night, I perused my computer's old files of poetry and photos of family and my early years in college at the Daily Nebraskan (forever my happiest memory). I'm amazed at the content of some of the files, not all of them poems, but late-night rants of me talking about religion in 2003 (noting, by the way, that I was looking into Judaism) or dreaming the ideal vision of Christmas morning that same year (happiness, a tree, family, snow). I have pictures of long-since-dead relatives, decked out in Victorian gowns, and yet another, still, of the grandmother I never knew playing around, wearing the army-issue hat of the grandfather I never knew. (I wish I knew where the photo was taken, what landmark sits in the background, or what exactly they were doing out on what appears to be a cool day.)

My computer, it seems, has become a hotbed of history and memory, and sometimes it's just hard to swallow. Some of it, however, makes me wonder why I got so old, so young. My poetry precedes me, in all things. I'm not sure why I stopped writing, but it happened when I moved to Connecticut. I have breakthrough spurts of emotion and lines, but they're fleeting. That poetry used to be my therapy, especially when I slammed, standing in front of a crowd made silent by rhymes of death, the Holocaust, and being Jewish, and hollering, hooting, over lines about my figure and the words "you could be the first fat miss America."

Here's something old, something from September 9, 2001. It's weird, because, well, two days later it happened. I'd never connected it before, actually, but sometimes, I see these things coming.


Apocolyptic Atmosphere

Someday
the stars
will fall from the sky
and land on your head
and the
moon will fall into your hands
and melt before your eyes
with star dust crawling across your skin
and fireflies and dragonflies will buzz beneath ur chin
all before the world comes crashing in.

A Divergence: Poetry

I used to write poetry all the time, every day. Every waking moment I managed to pen something into a notebook, on a scrap of paper, on my old online journal. I did slam poetry in Omaha, and I poured out my heart in classrooms. I even once recorded a poem on video, sending it to the beloved recipient. But this venue, my "Jewish" blog, has never been one where I felt comfortable expressing myself outside myself. So here we are. Part 1 in a hopeful multi-post series. 

There's Something in My Eyes

Few places can I find peace of me
Spaces away from where the world outside spins,
Top speed topsy turvy, while I stand,
or sit, still and calm with dusty eyes
and sandy cheeks.

The static of streams, tiny drops dripping
down in systematic streaks, landing, circling
the drain, lost in a tube to tomorrow.
So I drizzle my loofa like a giant cinnamon roll,
toying with the taste of soapy sweets,
while the walls melt from steam, heat, from
standing still for minutes, hours. It all streams
together, and dusty eyes stay still despite
moisture.

Engine rolling, radio on off, then on
with lyrics loud and reverberating, matching
heart beats and the steady sound of
breathing. Quietude, solitary, being alone
with the hum crossing rhymes with voices
streaming from speakers.

Peace of mind, peace of me. Even when
I sleep there is little time for thinking,
fears slopped onto subconscious walls.
Few places can I find peace of me, so
I stand, or sit, with dusty eyes and
sandy cheeks.

A poem.

I'm browsing scholarly journals looking for papers that thrill me or authors that might want to get to know me. In the shuffle, I came across this poem by Jehanne Dubrow. It's about where I got my undergrad, the place I garnered a minor in Judaic studies -- if only they had had a major option. But then again, I suppose this poem says it all. This is excerpted from a 2006 issue of Judaism.

Judaic Studies
University of Nebraska-Lincoln
The department doesn't even fill a floor
but one room at the university,
fluorescents dark behind a frosted door
which answers woodenly to every knock.
No secretary waiting there to call
me puppele, German for little doll,
or feed me raspberry-swirled rugelach,
the sweetness now an eaten memory.
On certain days, Nebraska could be Poland,
the same blond silences of plains, each field
a never-ending corridor of gold.
What happened to the open door? It's sealed,
with every light tumed off, and no one home
except the wind breathing alone, alone.

JEHANNE DUBROW received her MFA in poetry from the University of Maryland, College
Park. She is currently working toward a Ph.D. in creative writing at the University of
Nebraska-Lincoln where she also serves as the senior poetry reader of Prairie Schooner. Her
work has appeared in Poetry, The Hudson Review, Tikkun, Midstream and The New
England Review.

A poetry break.

I hope that a move and change of pace and place will allow me to once again pen brilliant things.


Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

—from “Eating Poetry” by Mark Strand

A Poetic Interlude!

Okay. I was originally posting an Oi Va Voi video. And then I found this. It's of the style of SLAM poetry. And it's beautiful. I particularly like the line "i never found god i just ran out of excuses not to" and "i learned how to get to the point where the only rules i followed were the ones i cared about, and that, is how i found g-d." Brilliant.



Be sure to check out Jewish Impact Films!!! So good.

One of my favorite is the kosher vid, and especially, this noir about Passover and chametz!

A departure from all things Jewish, or is it?

I wrote last night. It was brief and fleeting and followed an incredibly bizarre half-hour of trying to fall asleep and being completely overwhelmed with emotion for no apparent reason whatsoever. There are these moments (that I've had since I was a child in elementary school) where I become completely taken with everything and nothing at all and I weep. It sounds weird, I know. But it happens. Sitting in a still room with all of the lights off, mind calming, breathing easy, and it comes out of nowhere. The feeling has come while editing at work, while sitting on a plane, while sitting in class. It just comes, and it doesn't stop until I ... do something to make it stop, be that write or speak outloud to no one in particular in beat and rhythm. So this is what came out this time around:

(DISCLAIMER: I've won praise and top spots for my performance poetry ... and been subsequently turned down for the publication of my poetry, because of the very reason it is well-recieved in performance. When reading it on the page, it loses the rhythm and beat and voice.)

i built this castle and
crowned myself queen.
queen of the things that
have yet to be seen.

i'm painting lavish
landscapes with fingertip
sweeps,
my hair making bristle
brushes, stroking and
choking the scene,
of things that fail to be seen.

i carry pieces of memories
i have yet to incur,
an advanced debit owed
to things that i cannot
begin to dream.

and yet upon my thrown
of thornes i'm sitting
and wishing and crying
out loud of
Ani
Ani
Ani ...

i built this castle, and
crowned myself queen,
queen of the things that
might have never been
seen.

Those three instances of ani are not for Ms. Difranco. Those are, rather, "I" or "I am" in Hebrew. A common phrase is "Ani Adonai" -- I am the Lord. For me, ani was followed by an empty verse. And then this poem came. Interesting, I suppose. You can tell me what the poem means to you, because I know what it means to me -- a hodgepodge of personal discovery and journey mixed with creation tales and history's tragedy. Short, but full of so much, it is.

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For those keeping score at home, I checked the Plaut Torah (w/commentary) tonight while at shul, and it would appear that Plaut's translation of Gen. 48:16 also loses the multiply "like fish" reference and instead says the descendants shall be teeming "multitudes." For those of you confused, I wrote about it here in this week's parsha discussion. I don't get how "fish" can turn into "multitudes" ... even if only to condense the wording because to do so sacrifices the significance of the Jewish people being as fish, free of the evil eye.