Three Little Words

Dear SJG,
I made so much brisket, I have leftovers up the wazoo. Please guide me on this matter before I plotz from exhaustion.
Thanks,
Tenderized in Tarzana

Dear Tenderized,
I, too, have a tendency to mass produce this challenging meat, in case an army of trespassers from the lesser parts of Sherman Oaks should God forbid stop by, unannounced. As a solution, so simple you might want to kick yourself in the tuchas for not thinking of it already, I offer you three little words first uttered by none other than Albert Einstein: "Freeze the leftovers." To Einstein and the SJG, it's all relative. Swaddled tightly in your Earth Day-approved, plant-based cling wrap, the brisket you slaved over will keep till next Passover. If your family is anything like mine, they'll wash it all down with leftover Manischewitz and tell you, "It's so much better than last year's brisket."
You're Welcome,
The SJG

A Change of Name

Immigrants line up at Ellis Island, circa 1910

In Miami there's a six-star hotel called the Oy Vey Towers. It offers massage, mud baths, 24- hour-a-day kosher eating, wonderful almond Danish and best of all, g-o-s-s-i-p. The hotel pages its guests via high quality, clear sounding speakers sited all around the hotel. Listening to messages such as, "Telephone call for Moishe Cohen from his lawyer," or, "Could Sadie Levy ring her marriage counselor,” or even, “Benny Chesnick – could you please call your parole officer," is a gossiper’s dream. One day, everyone is surprised to hear over the speakers, "Telephone call for Shane Ferguson, telephone call for Shane Ferguson." At once, several people go to reception to get a look at who this gentile staying at their hotel could be. They're surprised and very curious when an old man, obviously Jewish, comes up to the desk. 

Later, one of the guests asks the old man how he came to be named Shane Ferguson when he is so obviously Jewish. This is what he tells them: "When I left Russia to come to America, my name was Samuel Mincoffski. But my uncle thought it might be best if I told immigration that my name was Sam Lyons. I practiced saying my new name over and over for the entire boat trip. I asked the sailors to say it for me and I learned how to pronounce it. Time passed very quickly and soon I was standing in line at Ellis Island. But while waiting, I began to worry about everything. Would I say my name properly? What if they wouldn’t believe me? Would I be able to spell it? Would they arrest me and send me back? My mind started to spin and I got so confused that when I reached the front of the line and the officer asked me my name, I panicked and said, Schane Fergessen (which means 'I forgot already' in Yiddish). So that's what the immigration man wrote down.” 
http://awordinyoureye.com

This story resonates with the SJG like you can't believe. Why? I'll tell you why. Because when my Russian grandparents arrived at Ellis Island and gave their last name of Starratievski (don't ask me how to really spell it) the judge lopped off half of it. "Your name is Starr. Next." 

Obligatory Passover Pix

The obligatory group shot of family and dear friends who stopped by for brisket, highly-praised by my mother-in-law and everyone else whenever I begged for compliments, moist-like-you-can't-believe Chicken Marbella, my M.I.L.'s matzoh ball soup and gefilte to die-for, and what would Passover be without my brother John's crudites? Missing from photo: Grandpa Skippy, who posed for the first shot that came out blurry, and went outside during the second shot, mumbling, "Take it without me."

The obligatory Three Cuzzies shot: Andy, SJG and John. If this photo doesn't freeze-frame our lifelong love fest, what does? 

The obligatory neck-strain shot, capturing everyone except the photographer (John) at an incredibly awkward, partially-hidden angle. 

"Elijah! The Jukebox Musical! Live!"

Fine, let the other big networks celebrate Easter. Over here in Sherman Oaks, my people will be watching "Elijah! The Jukebox Musical! Live!" on SJG-TV, starring some famous and not-so-famous Jews who really know how to carry a tune. Turns out, the story of Elijah, not to mention the Exodus, fits perfectly with many beloved classics. What, you don't believe me? A few selections you can look forward to hearing tonight:

From "Cabaret": "Willkommen! And bienvenue! Welcome! Fremder, étranger, stranger... Glucklich zu sehen, Je suis enchante, Happy to see you, Bliebe, reste, stay." What prophet wouldn't love to hear this song in his honor when he walks through the door, all ghostly and exhausted from schlepping to a zillion seders? 

From Rod Stewart: "The First Cut Is The Deepest." So. Why is this song perfect? I'll tell you why. Because Elijah is the prophet who visits the circumcision ceremony of every Jewish child! Who knew? Well, it's news to me, I'll tell you that much, and spare you the details of how, according to biblical historian types, the entire Jewish male population circumsized themselves (ouch) pre-Exodus on the Seder night. Hence, the obvious tie-in with the song. (Duh).  

And finally, Bruce Springsteen's "Born To Run," which sums up what Passover, and most Jewish holidays, are really about: Fleeing. Getting the hell out with seconds to spare. Bolting before the bread can rise. Or, to put it another way: "They tried to kill us, they failed, let's eat!" If "Elijah! The Jukebox Musical! Live" isn't a ratings hit, the SJG may need to find another line of work. Full-time kugel-maker comes to mind. Please let me know if you hear of any openings. 

A Prayer For Passover

"I heard her brisket was decent." - Elijah, the ultimate Pop-In

Oy, math, how you mock me. Suddenly, it hit me like a ton of ancient mud bricks my Israelite ancestors produced while enslaved by that biblical baddie, you know the one, Pharaoh. (Nice Passover reference or what?) Friday morn, I popped the two briskets in a 275 oven thinking a six-pounder and a five-pounder would take... at an hour per pound... 11 hours to cook. Uh, duh. No one said to add the two together. No one but... me? Let's face it, I'm brisket-challenged. Somewhere mid-afternoon, as the scent of brisket wafted through the palatial estate, I realized in horror that, oh @#$%!!! I better check, they've been in there too long, and sure enough, they were done, and God willing, I didn't overcook them. If I did, I'll certainly blame my mother-in-law, who told me, and I quote, "You can cook brisket forever." So tonight, when you're reclining at your first or second seder, depending how you roll, please find a place in the Haggadah to squeeze in a prayer for me, as in... Baruch Ata Adonay Elohenu Melech Ha-olam... may the SJG's briskets melt like butter and not bring shame to her mispocha.

Still Life With Brisket

You'll be happy to know I spared you Stage 4 of Passover Prep -- schlepping to Gelson's and spending a heap of gelt like you wouldn't believe, or maybe you would if you've prepared a seder, and I use the term very loosely, for 15 people. I also spared you Stage 5, the pre-prep of the briskets, you're welcome, because why should I burden you with this hurtful mother-in-law/daughter-in-law brisket-centric conversation that went something like this:

"Cook it longer this time."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you can cook brisket forever."
"I don't want to cook it forever. Won't it get dry?"
"Not if you do it right."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying cook it longer."
"You said that already."
"I did?"
"Don't play coy with me, Missy. You're saying all these years, you think my brisket is what, tough?"
"It could be more tender."
"I'm hanging up now to weep."

Don't worry, I didn't shed a tear, not until I cut the onions. What I did do was rethink things in my standard obsessive way. Maybe my MIL was right. I mean, I don't even eat brisket. I haven't eaten meat since college. How should I know what constitutes tender vs. tough? Would it kill me to mix things up a bit, table my easy-peasy go-to Lipton's Soup/Ketchup recipe and step outside my brisket comfort zone? Well, why the eff not? And so, after I received an emergency research grant from the Institute For Better Brisket, I discovered this "melt in your mouth" recipe, courtesy of a nice Jewish gal who knows what she's talking about, God willing.

Stage 6: Exciting action shot of brisket cooking 

Rather than cook my briskets at 325 per usual, I'm cooking them at 275 degrees for 8 or 9 hours, maybe longer, "till they pull apart with two forks." Then back in the fridge they go, to be de-fatted and sliced Sunday morning, and later on in the day, warmed for 40 - 45 minutes in a 350 oven. Yes, you heard that right. The SJG mispocha is once again messing with Elijah and doing Passover on Easter Sunday. Stop by if you're in the neighborhood. But call first. I'm not a big fan of the pop-in. 

Passover Matzoh Hunt

Not true! It's plenty fun.

On Good Friday, April 19, 2019, the Short Jewish Gal will host the 142nd annual Passover Matzoh Hunt on the South Lawn of her sprawling Sherman Oaks estate. This year's theme is a lot like last year's theme: "Gimme Gelt!" More than 35,000 adorably rambunctious pishers are expected to join in the search for the afikomen. In an exclusive interview with The Daily Dayeinu, the SJG admitted, "Listen, it's not that easy to find new places to hide a bunch of broken matzoh, but I feel confident that this year, I've outdone myself. The kids really have their work cut out for them. I won't give anything away, other than to say checking under all those 150-pound rocks may prove challenging. I've already thrown my back out twice." Today's event will feature the beloved Matzoh Ball Toss (don't worry, the matzoh balls are room temperature), cooking safety demonstrations, including "How To Chop That Apple and Slice That Brisket Without Losing A Finger," pre-recorded Passover music, the Haggadah Hora, and storytelling galore. You want to know how Moses parted the Red Sea in time to get to his grandma's seder? Ask the SJG. Quick like a bunny, get your tickets for 142nd Annual Matzoh Hunt. They're selling like hot, mushy matzo kugel, but if you hurry, you can still score a couple for your kinder.