Gotta Serve Somebody

Or some thing. We went to see The Master yesterday. I think it could be pared by 15 minutes and not lose its drama or suspense. This film will assuredly be nominated for Academy Awards: best picture, best actors and perhaps score.

This long, ponderous film isn't one I'd recommend to everyone. If you liked The Tree of Life, The Master is for you. Joaquin Phoenix is superb as the post-traumatic stressed former Navy man (World War II). Philip Seymor Hoffman is riveting, his character both attractive and repulsive. The relationship between him and Phoenix is a pas de deux that is well, masterful.

The Master is an expert at controlling people. His movement, a cult, promises to connect humans to their past, cure leukemia and lead happy productive lives. Basically, he is a quack. A very powerful quack. One wonders if he could even exist in today's world of instant Internet connections. Maybe he could do worse damage.

The Master eventually gives an ultimatum to his young protegee: stop drinking and join the Cause, or leave. He leaves. He'd rather serve no one but demon alcohol. I admire his choice, a free choice. Better to reign in hell than serve wherever.

Learning to Make Rugeluch

I promised to bring rugeluch to my friend's break fast meal. Yom Kippur is a day of fasting, followed by stuffing yourself silly when it's all over. It's almost always a dairy meal--no meat but plenty of fish. Last night we had eight kinds of fish, along with cheeses, tomatoes, onions, scallion cream cheese and bagels. I'm not a smoked fish eater, but there was plenty of food for me to enjoy.

I have never baked rugeluch before. The dough is made with cream cheese, butter, sugar and flour. All the recipes I read said you have to chill the dough before using it, which I did. I was making chocolate and jam rugeluch, preferring chocolate myself.

I rolled out one piece of the dough into a 4X12 rectangle and filled it with the chocolate mix. I'd already made my first mistake in that I didn't chop the chocolate finely enough. Oy, what a mess. When I went to roll it and cut into pieces, very few retained the filling or the correct shape. When I bake them, most burned.

Why does someone in a tiny NYC kitchen attempt this? The truth is, I did it for the compliments. The second batch was better, and the third and fourth, made with jam, were the best, although by then I saw where wax paper came in. Sweating and cursing, I finally produced two dozen imperfectly shaped rugeluch.

When dessert was served, I was showered with an embarrassment of compliments. I said thank you and grabbed a slice of babka.

Eat More Butter

Now that my husband and I are middle aged and more demanding about our creature comforts (okay, we're cranky), there are certain things we just won't tolerate. For Marty, it's packaged bread. For me, it's run-of-the-mill butter. I want unsalted imported butter. I buy average butter for baking.

Why I'm writing about this is that there was an article in yesterday's The New York Times about a woman celebrating her 107th birthday. She has all her marbles and even got up on the dance floor. Naturally, everyone wanted to know her secret, which came down to this: no exercise, no pills, eat as much butter as you like, and never look back.

Since the health/medical world flip-flops on exercise being good or bad for you, I can see why people throw in the towel. Personally, I believe moderate exercise is good for most parts of the body, especially the mind. I take a lot of pills, but I have a chronic illness and it would be counter-productive to stop taking them since I'd die. But I constantly try to talk my doctors into reducing them. Don't look back is a valuable mantra--you won't see Time's winged chariot drawing near. Or that guy chasing you with a steak knife. Seriously, looking back at your life can be informative, as long as your regretometer stays at a very low level.

My mother loved butter. No nasty margarine for our family. Sometimes she would eat a glob of butter. I remember her spreading butter on her pizza crusts. Eating lots of butter didn't kill her, cigarettes did.

Another Good Read

It's been a long time since I've read anything by Peter Carey, perhaps since A True History of the Kelly Gang. Carey's newest novel, A Chemistry of Tears, is excellent. Catherine Gehrig, the horological curator at the Swinburne Museum in London, is grieving over the death of her lover, coming so close to the abyss that her boss decides to give her a special project involving a mechanical swan that eats, digests and excretes according to precise movements. Catherine's job is to make the swan, which was created in 1848, work again.

The book goes back and forth in time, from the present day to 1854 when an Englishman named Henry Brandling takes the mechanism to Germany to try to have it fixed. The texture of the story is immensely intricate and intriguing. You have to read the book quickly to keep the details straight, but that's not a problem. It's short, and compelling.

Reading this book made me want to read more Carey so I checked out Oscar and Lucinda from the Jeffersonville Library which has a large collection of his books. More on that when I finish it.

Sound and Fury

It rained all day yesterday in Jeffersonville, 5.25 inches according to Weather Underground. Sometime around 5pm, my cell phone started beeping. It was a weather alert for my area that included flash flooding, tornado watch and high winds. The town fire alarm also sounded. Yikes! The brook in our back yard, which had been merely a trickle lately, was a raging river of mud, the highest I've ever seen it. Allegedly, the brook has never flooded. At its crest yesterday, it was approximately two feet below our property level. Our lights flickered several times, but except for minor moisture in our basement, we escaped unscathed.

La Shana Tovah

Usually, we spend Rosh Hoshana at Marty's sister's house in Pennsylvania, a big family affair where food never seems to leave the table. Whatever time you wander into the dining area, there is food. I always have a good time, catching up with my nieces and nephew, barely contributing to the work involved (sorry, Esther).

This year, we spent the holiday in Jeffersonville. This year, I did all the work. I baked a round challah, made chicken matzo ball soup from a box, cooked a brisket and baked an apple strudel. We had local honey and apples.

Marty went to temple with our Israeli friend Lorraine. I went to yoga where it turns out most of the students are Jewish, obviously not the temple-going kind. I abstain from services whenever I can but will attend bar or bat mitzvahs and weddings.

I made a dairy lunch and we ate outside on the patio. It was a beautiful day. Later in the afternoon, Marty led a Tashlikh service by the brook, attended by me and Buck. The tradition involves taking bread or crackers and casting them into the water with your sins attached. All Buck could think was, "why were they throwing away those tasty stale crackers?" Then Marty blew the shofar, a ram's horn. In ancient times, before cell phones, important signals were sent via blowing a ram's horn. Other bouviers we've had hated the sound of the shofar, getting as far away as possible from the offending noise. Buck, however, seems to like the sound. There he is next to Marty beside the brook.

Marty blows the shofar by the brook with Buck

For me, it was the best Rosh Hoshana ever.

Simple Country Pleasures

We haven't been to Jeffersonville in almost two weeks. There's something addictive about this place. It's peaceful, pretty and smells fresh. Contrast that with jack-hammers from sunrise to sunset, little greenery and the constant stink of the the street, and you'd wonder if there were even a question as to why I prefer the country. Would I prefer it if I lived here full-time? I would miss New York City, but I can always visit and mooch off friends.

Yesterday was a big day here, filled with events for the young and the restless, the bold and the beautiful, the old and the crotchety, and lots of average folks. Jeffersonville is not a hole in the wall. It has a Brazilian restaurant, a book group, and one of the most diverse radio stations this side of the Hudson. If you want more culture, you don't have to go far. Bethel Woods is ten minutes away, and there are numerous galleries and art shows close by.

But I digress. Have you ever been to a tractor parade? Fifty or so tractors drove through town yesterday, the oldest from 1948 (the driver was older). The variety of vehicles and drivers was amazing. The weather was perfect. Vendors lined the way, most selling yellow rubber ducks that would later float down the Callicoon Creek. The top three ducks win cash prizes; the pokiest ducks gets gift certificates to local stores. The money raised goes to projects that enhance Jeffersonville. I missed all but the end of the race due to an urgent need for a massage.

The second oldest tractor in the parade and possibly the oldest driver

The local volunteer fire department hosted a pancake breakfast. Breakfasts, lunches and dinners are a staple here, although I've never been to any because when I'm in the country I like to cook.I have a huge kitchen, too big really, and not very well designed. Still, it beats my NYC pocket kitchen.

A crane just glided up the brook, packing his things for the winter in Mexico.

When the Cat's Away

Saturday night, we went out to dinner with our friends Patty and Jeff who had come to New York to move their daughter Sarah into her new apartment not far from us. Their dog Quincy, a friendly golden retriever, came with them and hung out with Buck. They got along very well, too well.

When we returned from a wonderful dinner, we found that the dogs had had a party in our absence. No booze or anything like that, but they opened Quincy's food container and ate the contents. Fortunately, there had only been a couple of days worth of food inside. Buck was the one that suffered though. Marty did, too. Buck has a sensitive stomach to begin with. Eating a different brand of food gives him the runs. Poor Marty. He felt so responsible about the mess on the sidewalk he went down with newspaper and a watering can to clean it up. What New Yorker would do that?

Quincy's back in New Hampshire and Buck is fine. How they opened the container is something they will never reveal.

My Zagat

There was an article in The New York Times this week about new restaurants opening this Fall. I don't have enough time or money to visit them all. There are so many restaurants in our Upper East Side neighborhood that we rarely go to to other areas of the city.

We have our favorites. Often, when friends stay in our apartment without us, they ask for recommendations. These are my choices, listed in no particular order.

We rarely go out for breakfast but The Green Kitchen on 1st and 77th is a typical diner. Like many diners around here, you can get an inexpensive meal or spend more on waffles, paninis and lobster. The setting is typical diner though, so we tend to not want to spend extra on food in a boring atmosphere. As far as I can tell, there's nothing green about this place, but perhaps the kitchen is painted green. Service is efficient.

For lunch, Johnny Foxes on 2nd Avenue between 80th and 81st serves great burgers and other bar-type food. It's inexpensive, and has a great happy hour which I've never been to. Service is spotty at lunch.

We have so many dinner choices here. My favorite Italian restaurant is Caffe Buon Gusto on 77th between 2nd and 3rd. The pasta is excellent, and they have half-priced bottled wine on Monday-Wednesday. The atmosphere is nice and the service is great.

Beyoglu (no website I can find), a Turkish restaurant on 81st and 3rd, is a great place to go for felafel, but it's also a fine choice for dinner. The menu choices are well-priced and feature lamb and other meats in yummy sauces. My vegetarian niece found options, too. There's a lot of beautiful tiling and dark wood. Service is very good.

The Atlantic Grill on 3rd between 76th and 77th specializes in fish. One of the best restaurants in my neighborhood, it's also one of the most expensive. We recently went during restaurant week and it was a good value at $35 prix fixe. They have a terrific sushi bar. Seafood bisques and fish entrees are superb. The service strains under the volume of diners. It's also quite noisy. For a really nice meal, this is the place to go.

What we lack, believe it or not, is a good Chinese restaurant. There used to be a good one nearby but it went out of business. We're surviving.

Take-out is a whole other story, one you'll have to wait for.

Cloud Atlas, the Movie

If you check my profile you'll see that one of my favorite books is Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell. It's a wise and intriguing novel consisting of six separate stories, two of which take place in the past, two in  the present and two in the future.

No one, not even the author thought it could be made into a movie. But the Wachowskis, sister and brother film makers who helped create The Matrix series, saw the possibilities. Together with Tom Tykwer, they fought to make the film a reality. In a genius move, they convinced Tom Hanks (who didn't need much convincing) to play the main character in each of the six segments of the book. Hanks is the perfect Everyman. Still, I can't wait to see how this is achieved.

Cloud Atlas is being shown at the Toronto Film Festival, and opens in theaters October 26. I have to see this movie, and perhaps reread the book.