With Great Power...

After much anticipation and fanfare, I took my family to see The Avengers on opening weekend. All I can say is “Whoa!” 

It is important to understand the basis of this “whoa.” I am not basing my “whoa” on the special effects which were certainly good but not cutting edge. I am not basing my “whoa” on the acting, which was certainly effective, but not worthy of any academy awards. I base my “whoa” on the fact that the movie worked…plain and simple. The movie was exciting, engaging, entertaining, interesting, funny, and…most of all…against all odds, competent. Yes, competent. By all rights, this movie should have failed, and under the direction of anyone other than creative demigod Joss Whedon, it certainly would have. 

“How could it have failed?” you ask. Easily. Think of everything the movie had to do. It had to live up to the writing, directing, acting, storyline, and special effects of the precursor movies (Ironman, Ironman 2, Thor, Captain America, and the various takes on the Hulk). It had to mesh the different worlds of each superhero, each of whom lives in distinct realities within the Marvel universe. Ironman lives in a world of technology and wisecracking quips, Thor lives in a world of Wagnerian costumes and Shakespearian dialog, Captain America lives in a world of 1940’s patriotic war movies and patriotic rhetoric, and the Hulk lives in a world of mediocre CGI. All of these back stories, all of their dialogs, and all of their visual styles had to be pulled together into a seamless tapestry that should mimic more a fine Persian rug and less a first grade 4H quilting project. In addition, the director had to work with the A-list actors from all of these movies, give them equal screen time, and manage their sizeable egos.

Joss was just the fanboy to pull it off. On top of everything, he created a summer blockbuster that worked for many audiences. It was an exciting diversion for the casual moviegoer (whom I tend to refer to as “the common folk”). It was a faithful adaptation for the comic book faithful. And it was a cleverly written Joss Whedon oeuvre for film geeks like myself who wait patiently for Stan Lee to make his cameo appearance, watch for bit part actors who are now stars in Joss’s personal black book (eg, Enver Gjokaj and Alexis Denisof), and analyze the screenplay for Joss’s wordplay, stylistic elements, and careful balance of tension and release.  

 Joss shared screenwriting credit with Zak Penn, whose superhero screenplay resume includes “The Incredible Hulk,” “X-Men: The Last Stand,” “Fantastic Four,” “Elektra,” “X2,” “Last Action Hero,” and the TV show, “Alphas.” Joss no doubt had the executive producers looking over his shoulder every step of the way, including Marvel Comics CEO Avi Arad and Marvel All-Father Stan Lee. And, he had a variety of other heavy hitters on the payroll, including Alan Silvestri writing the original score.

So, yeah. Whoa.

If you haven’t seen the movie yet, make sure you stay through the credits. Partway into the credits, you will get a teaser about the next Marvel movie, although to fully understand the reference, it helps to have a comic book maven like my wife sitting next to you (who spent two years archiving comic books for the Indianapolis Children’s Museum.) At the very end of the movie, there is a very funny tag that will make you glad you waited to find out who was the second second assistant director (who by the way is Julian Brain). And, if you already saw the movie and ran out as soon as the credits started rolling, fine. That’s your prerogative. But I ain’t gonna tell you what happens at the end. That’s what you get for being common folk.

Speaking of Mr. Whedon, according to IMDB, his next big project, now in post-production, is a movie adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing. This ought to be interesting because the cast list is completely filled with actors from Joss’s  black book; actors and actresses from “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” “Angel,” “Firefly,” “Dollhouse,” and now “The Avengers.” Hey, why not? He’s Joss “The Boss” Whedon, and he can pretty much do what he wants at this point. I just hope he remembers the mantra from the Marvel universe, “with great power comes great responsibility.”

A Passover Confession

I have a confession to make. I really like Passover. And, although I realize that I may be banished from the “cool table” at lunch for admitting this, I even like matzah. I like the crunch, the simple flavor, the nostalgic memories of childhood seders that it evokes as the subtle umami washes over the back of my tongue. I like the horseradish root (usually raw) and the biting mixture of sweet and spicy in Hillel’s sandwich of charoset and bitter herbs. The man hit upon a great idea. Why no one has commercialized it is most likely an unfortunate residual stigma of its religious time and place. “Yeah…uh…I’ll have a Hillel sandwich, small fries, and a diet Coke. To go, please.” No, I can’t see it happening either.

I suppose I’m still riding the glow of the seders. With any luck, I’ll be able to ride that glow through the rest of the week.

Riding that enthusiasm all the way to the end is definitely a challenge. Despite my love of the holiday, by day four I have re-evaluated all my personal values, I have taken stock in all my blessings, I have squeezed every bit of relevancy out of the book of Exodus , and, most importantly, I have eaten up all the good leftovers. Suddenly, I am faced with flagging enthusiasm matched with diminishing creativity, and, as I stare at the carton of eggs in the refrigerator, I am left with that nagging thought, “Is this all really worth it?”

For those of you who have never kept Passover, or never kept it beyond reducing your donut intake from three per day to two, Passover is not simply about unleavened bread. The laws of Passover have evolved over the millennia to not only include breads made with wheat, barley, rye, spelt, or oats, but basically any product made from the grain that has not been baked and processed as matzah. The Ashkenazi (Eastern European) tradition could never leave well enough alone, and added corn, rice, millet and legumes to the list, along with all of their associated products. If you ever wondered why there is such a booming Passover food industry, just consider all the commercial foods that contain corn starch, corn sweeteners, or grain vinegar. Even if you mix and match traditions (allowing legumes but not allowing corn or rice, allowing corn and rice but not allowing wheat, barley, rye, spelt, or oats), keeping kosher for Passover is a major ordeal. It takes commitment, planning, and BELIEF. Not necessarily a belief in a divine covenant or retribution, but rather a belief that you are tapping into something spiritually important. Correction…something spiritually critical.

At its core, Passover is about freedom: freedom from slavery, freedom from oppression, freedom from absolute control. And yet, it isn’t until maybe the fourth day, the spiritual hump day of the Passover week, do we truly start to understand the meaning of the holiday. It is only after we start fantasizing about thick crust pizza, only after we find ourselves slowing our pace as we walk through the bakery aisle at the grocery, only after we consider pulling the bottle of Karo corn syrup off the shelf, ripping off the top, inserting a straw, and going to town, do we realize that we are still slaves ourselves. We are slaves of convenience, slaves of habit, slaves of routine. We have relinquished control of our lives, and we rarely stop to appreciate our connection to the world until we do something as simple as remove all grain products for a week. The more complex your world, the more you will be thrown for a loop.

So, stop. Take note. Feel the world spinning out of control for a minute. Then pull yourself out of your complacency, and reach deep into yourself for that spark of creativity and that resurgence of enthusiasm.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go prepare dinner. I have no idea what I’m going to make, but I’m sure it will come to me in time. And I'm sure it will be delicious.

Globe Spinner Dinner Rides Again

A couple of years ago, I wrote about “Globe Spinner Dinners,” a fun, family activity in which one spins a globe, selects a country at random, and plans a dinner around the cuisine and culture of said country. To do this right (i.e., the way my mother used to do it), one does not only plan the meal around the local cuisine, but one gets the entire family involved in dressing up in native garb, researching demographic and historical information, and generally enlightening each other on trivia about the native culture and traditions.

I had been planning to do more Spinner Dinners over the years to edify my children culinarily and culturally. And then it was now. Hmph. Strange how the best laid plans always fall apart under their own inertia. Nonetheless, my youngest son suggested that we give it another go, and I agreed, partly because I love the challenge, but mostly because it tends to force my family out of their comfort zone. The last time we spun, I ended up with Botswana. What would we get this time? Spain? Rwanda? Swaziland? Monaco?

Despite my older son’s suggestion that we use Google Earth to randomly select a country, I insisted on using a real live, old-fashioned globe. Give me tactile sensation over virtual experience any day. I want to know that my stochastic selection is real, not a computer-generated artifact. I want to feel that globe a-spinning.

Naturally, the first three times we spun, we landed on water. “I guess we’ll do sushi,” my younger son quipped. Yeah, it was funny the first time; not so much the third. But eventually he hit a country. American Samoa. Yes, you heard me, Samoa, a tiny unincorporated U.S. territory hidden in the South Pacific. Do you know how hard it is to hit Samoa? My son, who had been hoping for Italy, opted for spinning again. No, I admonished him; the purpose of a Spinner Dinner is to try out new cuisines from exotic lands. You can have pizza any old time.

The Internet is invaluable for preparing a Spinner Dinner menu. I don’t know how my mother did it. Maybe she was lucky enough to hit European and Asian countries every time. Or maybe she used a weighted globe that just “happened” to land on Italy again and again. But, oh no, not me. I had Samoa to contend with. And of course, I had to make it vegetarian. This is not an easy feat in Samoa, where the national bird appears to be corned beef. Samoan cooking does not use much spice, but it does use a lot of coconut and cream…which explains why Samoans are not a particularly diminutive people.

After some research and recipe hopping, I came up with following menu below:

Vegan Palusami (spinach and vegan corned beef cooked in coconut milk)

Sapa Sui (basically chop suey) with marinated chunk TVP

Panipopo (sweet coconut buns

Panikeke (deep fried banana pancake balls)

In my opinion, the palusami was delicious, but I seemed to be in a minority of one. So, naturally, UI will be the only person taking the palusami leftovers in my lunch. The sapa sui went over better with my family because it more closely resembled my typical stir fry. The panipopo and the panikeke (which I made for dessert) were big hits. Let’s hear it for simple carbs.

All in all, the dinner was successful. I pulled out my laptop while we ate and educated everyone about Samoa while they pushed the spinach around on their plate and devoured the coconut buns. And now I’m feeling energized and empowered to try this again very soon. Of course, while that globe is spinning, I’ll be thinking, “Please not Europe. Please not India. Please not China.”

I mean, come on…they can have pizza and curry any old time.

I'm Gonna Drink

Happy Purim! Chag Sameach!

It's time again for my annual Purim song. I used to have an annual tradition of ranting about the lack of good, original Purim songs, but I decided that a much more constructive use of my time would be to write the songs that we need and share them with the world.

The trick, of course, is to write a song that hasn't been written before. We don't need another song to teach us the story of Purim. We don't need another song to entice us to eat hamantachen. We don't even need another song that suggests that since it's Purim, we might want to, you know, get happy. We need songs that explore all of the other, forgotten themes of the holiday. Such as last year's song about partying with King Ahasuerus.

Of course, getting drunk has not nearly been explored nearly enough in the pantheon of Purim melodies. There is Az Di Rebbe Elimelech ("Elimelech of Gilhofen/Drank l'chaim once to often/Drank l'chaim and became a trifle gay..."). But other than that, it's an entirley unexplored terrain.

Until now.

I offer up to you, "I'm Gonna Drink Till I Can't Tell Haman From Mordechai." This rockabilly song is possibly the only place in the world that you will find the phrase, "I'm hangin' like a tallis in the breeze." Why? Because someone had to write it. And everyone ELSE was apparently out that day.

I've posted the lyrics below, because my Microsoft home mixing capabilities leave something to be desired (to put it mildly), and I want you to savor each brilliantly crafted line. Please feel free to rerecord this song and make your own video. Just please attach my name onto it as the songwriter. I'll even do the vocals for you. I'll even do it in costume. And, I might even let you choose the costume.


I'M GONNA DRINK TILL I CAN'T TELL HAMAN FROM MORDECHAI

I lost my baby, the other night
I don’t know why but we got in a wicked fight
Now my honey is not my honey anymore
Now it’s Purim, I’m all alone
I couldn’t even call her on the telephone
And I lost it, when I lost her out the door.
I’m a regular court jester
I’m a king without his Esther
The only mask I wear is a mask of shame
So now I twirl a grogger
While pouring back a lager
And burying my head in a pile of blame

I’m gonna weep
I’m gonna sigh
I’m gonna sleep
I’m gonna cry
I’m gonna drink Manischewitz and tequila with a bottle of rye

The days of Purim
I can’t endur’em
They make me shudder
And make me squirm
I’m gonna drink till I can’t tell Haman from Mordechai

I lost my baby, the other day
Now I don’t know what to do or what to think or say
And I’m hanging like a tallis in the breeze
I tried to reason, I tried to beg
I tried to sing her songs of passion on a bended leg
But my action just bought me achy knees
My life is full of sorrow
I fear there’s no tomorrow
My holiday will never be the same
‘Cause when she starts the blamin’
She treats me like I’m haman
She stomps and screams and tries to erase my name

I’m gonna weep
I’m gonna sigh
I’m gonna sleep
I’m gonna cry
I’m gonna drink Manischewitz and tequila with a bottle of rye

The days of Purim
I can’t endur’em
They make me shudder
And make me squirm
I’m gonna drink till I can’t tell Haman from Mordechai

I’m gonna weep
I’m gonna sigh
I’m gonna sleep
I’m gonna cry
I’m gonna drink Mogen David and tequila with a bottle of rye

The days of Purim
I can’t endur’em
They make me shudder
And make me squirm
I’m gonna drink till I can’t tell Haman from Mordechai

(Gluten-Free) (Vegetarian) Tamale Pie

One of the most successful dishes at my son's bar mitzvah was the Tamale Pie. I am very proud of the recipe; it is both vegetarian and gluten-free. I know the dish was successful because no one said to me, "You know, this isn't bad for gluten-free vegetarian food."

The recipe can be found at the Website below. I am trying to win a contest with this recipe, so please feel free to leave a post on my recipe entry about how much you liked the recipe. Or hated the recipe. Or found the recipe intriguing. Or hate rampant self-promotion.

http://www.everydayhealth.com/forums/new-year-new-you-challenge/topic/gluten-free-vegetarian-tamale-pie#anchor-2

Siman tov u' mazel tov!

And I'm back. Yep. Just like that. That's the way blogs go. One day it's July...then next day it's January. You see, I got kind of busy...

My oldest son just had his barmitzvah celebration last weekend. Oy. Months of work on his part, on my part, on his mother's part...all for one weekend. But what a weekend!

First of all, Buck (not his real name, but I am going to maintain the illusion of his privacy and anonymity) did a wonderful job. He chanted his Torah and Haftarah portion beautifully, led the prayers in the service jes' fine, and delivered a d'var torah that has had us rethinking our understanding of the story of Exodus. My wife, my father, and I also chanted Torah, partly out of a sense of duty, partly out of solidarity with my son, and partly because we can't help that we are bigshot showoffs. We made one of the mothers in the congregation a little nervous. Her son will be barmitzvah in a couple of years, and after the service, she asked me skittishly, "They don't make all the parents chant Torah as well, do they?"

However, on top of everything else, I decided to cater the barmitzvah myself. It seemed like a brilliant idea a year ago; a great way to cut costs. We originally planned for over 100 people, about 80 people showed up, and I made enough food to feed at least 120. So, we have been eating leftovers all week. And we probably will next week as well.

The lunch was Mexican-themed. Originally, I had planned to do a congregational lunch at our synagogue, and I convinced Buck that a Mediterranean-themed lunch that would work best as a cold (or room temperature) lunch, seeing as we could not use the ovens on Shabbat. But due to various twists, turns, and decisions, the lunch was moved to a different location with a kitchen, and Buck convinced me to create a Mexican lunch with hot dishes: black bean soup, tamale pie, and fiesta rice. I even developed a new recipe for the occasion; a gluten-free tamale pie that should be suitable for those with gluten or wheat intolerance. Oh, and my mother and her friends pitched in to bake about 350 cookies. So, we're eating leftover cookies now with our leftover tamale pie.

Now the weekend is over, and I am left with nothing but bills, thank you letters, and leftovers. I can not help but feel the post-barmitzvah malaise, a sense of loss as I try to fill in the massive vacancy in my schedule. I have this urge to tell my son to go practice his Torah portion. I am doing my best to stifle this urge. Besides...he has his science fair project to work on now. Maybe I'll do my own science fair project as well; just to lend him moral support. And then I can cater the science fair. I wonder if the judges will like tamale pie?

Rationalization and Catharsis

I am not a violent man. Not really.

Sure, I've studied varied martial arts over the past two decades, dabbling in the pugilistic styles of Hapkido, Aikido, Karate, Kendo, and Krav Maga. Sure, I love wrestling with my sons and my nieces, encouraging both of them to jump on me in a way that nearly always leads my mother to comment, "And you wonder why you have back problems?" Sure, I love playing the occasional violent first person shooter video game, especially if I can save the human race from zombies, alien predators, or particularly vicious insurance salesmen.

But there is a difference between catharsis, survival, brutality, and indifference, and my wife and I have struggled for many years to differentiate these to our children, despite a society that consistently confuses the four. For example, for me to kill another person, I would either have to completely devalue that person's life (indifference), weigh the value of my life against the other person's life (survival), or kill the person despite understanding the value of that life (brutality). As a vegetarian, to eat meat, I would have to ignore the pain felt by the animal (indifference), have no other solution but to eat the animal (survival), or eat the animal despite valuing its life (brutality). These are heady, philosophical ideas, ones that require a balanced perspective and a hefty dose of rationalization. And, yes, despite my soapbox, I have my own level of rationalization. Do I eat eggs? Yes. Are the hens kept in cages? Yes. Do I therefore devalue the suffering of the chickens? Well, possibly.

My wife and I have had many long discussions about this balance, particularly as it relates to touchy issues such as bringing toy guns and gun-related video games in the house. We finally agreed on a balance. We allow sword toys (including and especially light sabers), because despite their violent nature, they do teach the owner a respect for the person directly opposite you with the opposing light saber. You can not devalue them; If you do, you get whacked in the head. But guns, even toy guns, teach children to devalue life. Kids become desensitized to the reality of bullets. Violence becomes removed from consequence. Even as I write this, Indianapolis is reeling from a shooting downtown that left 10 people injured. Can I assume that my children will understand the subtleties between shooting virtual objects for the sake of emotional release and shooting real objects that have become virtual only through their devaluation? It's a slippery slope, and in our modern age of gun violence in the classroom, I fear this is not a subtlety we can ignore.

But yesterday those subtleties flew out the window. Yesterday I took Buck, my oldest son, to play paintball.

Buck had been asking to play paintball for the last two years. Despite his normal aversion to pain and loud noises, nothing could dissuade him, not even my wife's exhortations about the physical effects of a small liquid-filled object hitting his body at 300 feet per second. "Those things cause welts," she said. "I saw it on Mythbusters." Buck could see that any chance at paintball did not reside with his mother.

I, on the other hand, was intrigued. Despite a complete lack of interest in guns or the military in general, I couldn't help but feel a strange yearning for violence in a controlled atmosphere. I found myself in great need of shooting other people with paint while trying to avoid being hit by paint in return. Or possibly even while being hit by paint in return. It was a bizarre mix of catharsis, masochism, and sadism. To Buck, I said, "Sure, sounds fun. Let me look into it."

So finally, today we spent a couple of hours playing wargames at White River Paintball in Anderson, Indiana. We had the time of our lives. We played games of single elimination and capture the flag against strangers who very quickly became friends. We sweated in the hot sun and then got drenched in a sudden downpour. We crawled behind dunes, hid behind metal barrels, dived behind rusting aircraft, and cowered behind boxes. And then we jumped up, aimed, fired, picked off our enemy, laughed, and were immediately blasted with paint by the other guy flanking us. It wasn't painful, but it was exhausting, exhilarating, and exciting.

Most importantly, I felt that Buck learned a valuable lesson about catharsis, indifference, survival, and brutality. Sure, paintball is cathartic, but you can’t be indifferent about the violence, not when the other guy is shooting back at you. You can’t be too brutal, not when there are regulations regarding surrendering, weapons safety, and the like. For the short time we played soldier (and I realize that was all we were doing), we understood that sometimes you have to balance your life against your enemy’s life. This is survival, and even with survival, even in the midst of war, there are rules to be followed.

Unless you have your father within your sights. And then it’s open season.