Israeli Music

I have to give the Israelis some credit. Despite the tendency in traditional music towards the minor key, there are some really talented song writers in this country and to boot, there is a minimal amount of musical Hebrew fluff out there. No need to see one of their stars climb up a candy-cane snake and frolic naked in the clouds like Katy Perry.

The music spans a surprising number of genres too. This I know from experience, since my i-tunes is filled with a whole lot of random Hebrew music some friends gave me. Besides the excellent folk and pop, there is a lot of very romantic nationalistic songs that grandparents like to sing on Independence Day, but also Hebrew reggae and even Hebrew rap. We know this because one day while walking home from work, James and I came across a religious dude and his entourage shooting a rap video.

I think I have a new favorite Hebrew song. It wins the title in part because it is stunning, and in part because I can actually understand quite a bit of it - even without the English subtitles. It is a chick song, I know, but I am female....

This is a pretty optimistic song for Efrat Gosh. She hit it big with songs about domestic violence, depressed pregnant ladies and relationships without emotion. On that happy note, enjoy!



This song usurps my previous favorite which which was a famous one by Eric Einstein, Israel's Gordon Lightfoot. It was one of the tunes that ended up on my computer.

I used to hum it all the time, until recently, when I payed a little more attention to the words and got completely creeped out. Yes, it is about unrequited love, but in a completely stalkerish way. AND, if I got my translation and allusion correct, there is reference to another "knowing" the girl in the biblical way. Yick.

This video just tops it off. The song is sleazy. Like leisure suit sleazy.

Old techniques are still sometimes the best techniques

I needed to know exactly the concentration of a solution I was using. A little internet search and I realized there was only one really good way to figure that out. And as a result,...

I did a titration today! It was so old school that I had to go to the teaching labs to find all the equipment I needed.

Burettes, volumetric pipettes, indicators, the whole bit.

I dripped one solution into the other until I made the purple solution go colourless. It was awesomesauce.

Who knew those high school skills would be useful? A shout out to Mr. McCormick! And Polly! Remember doing these together in OAC chemistry?

Anyone else remember doing these, or still have nightmares about not being able to tell if the yellow solution has turned pink?

What a week

A friend of mine told me a story a while ago about the day he had his first paper accepted for publication. On the same day, he also received a letter from a very thankful financially poor family to whom my friend had given his car. He said he sat there, looking at the two letters and questioned the meaning of success.

This week has been a bit like that for me. Yesterday, I submitted again that paper which has been my personal cat that came back. I just want it to go away. We added in a lot more stuff, and this time, I think, I hope, I pray, it will get accepted for publication.

I also got another PFO letter. This time from a small school, where I thought I might have a chance. I have been told that although my research proposals are good, I don't have enough publications to even warrant an interview. This post doc was my time to get papers out, but with the irreproducible project from hell, even with being the first to arrive, the often the last to leave everyday and skipping Christmas, well, those papers just haven't materialized.

Since my number of publications is something I cannot easily change, I plan to keep applying for academic positions, but I won't be holding my breath. It is time to dust off plan B, whatever plan B is. Part of me is excited about other possibilities. All the same, I am watching a dream die and it isn't very fun.

Despite my little self pity party above, I really have had to think twice about this whole thing. This week I learned someone I know has died prematurely of cancer, discovered another has it, got the news that an old friend is expecting her first child, and another friend got engaged to a fantastic girl (finally, Joel! What took you so long?!?!? If I was still single, I'd have proposed to Bethany!).

So who really cares about whether my paper gets accepted or whether I get an academic job? It doesn't really matter. The important things in life simply are not papers or professorships.

And the sun will keep on rising and setting no matter what happens.

Sunday Smiles

On the bus this morning, I sat in one of the seats facing backward and that allowed me to do some people watching. As expected everyone looked pretty dower, as most people do when leaving the freedom of the weekend behind to go back to work.

But one girl kept bursting into spontaneous smiles and then playing with her hair. She seemed to glow with happy memories.

What was it that was making her grin behind her coffee cup? Something amusing she heard on the radio this morning? Something that reminded her of a funny childhood memory?

Maybe it was the Tom Petty on the bus radio, but I think it was something else. I bet she got kissed by a cute boy on the weekend.

It kinda made my day, seeing someone else's happiness.

Just a little bitter. Which is "מר" in Hebrew

Yesterday, not one, but two people accused me of having poor Hebrew.

First it was the bus driver.
היית בישראל שנה והצי?! באמת?
את ץריכה לדבר יותר
"You've been here a year and a half? Really? You need to speak more."

Then a prof over heard me get flustered with a wrong number I dialed (I was expecting an English speaker) and told me with a straight face that I need to improve my Hebrew.

And now I sit here, working on my impossibly difficult homework for my FIFTH completely unnecessary Hebrew course.

I would like to remind the world that I am a WASP from Canada where the official languages are English and French. I get a maximum four years here before I get the boot. That is it.

My grandfather spoke some Gaelic, my father some Ojibway, and so I feel I am merely continuing the family tradition of learning half dead -or returned from the dead- languages.

And contrary to popular belief, languages are very difficult, especially for me, and I have to work hard at them.

So I am sorry that I haven't dedicated my self completely and now speak fluent Hebrew.

Now I must go back to memorizing completely useless words like "flow" "to hang" and "thinness."

The Handy Hijab

I saw this woman in Nasareth walking down the street with a toddler adorably sprawled in her arms asleep.

But people in Israel list gabbing on their cell phones as necessities along with food, water and shelter. So how did this woman solve the problem of full hands but still needing to talk on her cell phone?

She shoved her cell phone up the side of her hijab to hold it to her ear!

Hey, if it works, why not?

Weekend Warrior Princess goes to Nazareth

On Friday I hopped on a bus and ended up sitting next to a Texan who was still shell shocked from the ultimate back-packer in Israel story. He had forgotten his back pack under the last bus he took and when he remembered and ran back to get it.... well, the scene wasn't good. They blew it up.
A guy in a bomb proof suit handed him his shredded belongings in a garbage bag.
Seeing as the Texan still had all the important stuff in his day-pack, he was laughing rather than freaking out.

Then on to Nazareth, where I spent the afternoon wandering around through the old city, a very un-touristy Arab market, in and out of some churches, up a huge hill for the view, and into one of the tastiest restaurants I have been to in Israel. Lemon grilled chicken, rice with almonds and middle eastern spices, a roasted red pepper, and a big tall beer. Mmmm. My mouth waters just thinking about it.

Just so you know, the haze in the above picture isn't pollution. It was the humidity as a side order to go with the 30 degree heat and blasting sun. Climbing the hill to get that picture, even at 6 pm was a bit of a sweat-fest.

The old part of Nazareth has many confusing narrow streets against a tall hill. Many of the streets are lined with big mysterious green doors closed with padlocks. During business hours, the green doors open to reveal shops for simply everything: clothing, spices, coffees, cafes, felafel stands, veggies, fish, notions, fabric, underwear, head scarves, shoes, toiletries, pot and pans, appliances, upholsterers, metal workers and even carpenters (yes I found carpenters in Nazareth!)

I spent the night right at the heart of the town at a convent, which was actually fantastic. Those sisters know how to keep a pristine dormitory, or a "dormatoria", as one of them called it. The 10 pm curfew wasn't a bother since I wasn't planning to wander around after dark anyway.

2000 years ago, Nazareth was only 400 people, making my home town of Dorset look big. Now it is 70 thousand and bustling. The crusaders, as you can imagine, had fun there building lots of churches. Although there is only one big noticeable mosque in the center of town, there is also a large Muslim population in addition to the endemic Christians, judging from the number of hijabs I saw.

The next day, I went to a great outdoor exhibit on village life 2000 years ago. I learned how they made wine, about the synagogue (which wasn't sex separated and was more a community centre) and other little tid-bits. I might force James to go back with me in the fall to see them work the giant olive press. And maybe another meal at that restaurant.

Then I decided to head home. Since it was shabbat and the buses weren't running till after dark, I had to take a couple of sheruts. The Arab sherut vans run all the time, but go only once they are full. I headed to where they were waiting, and an old man with three teeth from across the street asked "Tel Aviv?"

When I nodded yes, he motioned me into a blissfully air conditioned room where I spent the next 45 minutes waiting for the sherut on a white plastic lawn chair. The other occupants of the room were six Arab men who were checking out the deals in the Super-Pharm flier, discussing/yelling about something or everything, gossiping on their cell phones and smoking the odd cigarette. In simple English we discussed where I am from and my favorite Israel foods. When I said I like baklava they all exclaimed "bakLAAAAva! YES! GOOD!"

They made a pot of Arab coffee by tossing a whole bunch of grounds in a special silver pot, boiling it at length over a gas burner, and adding copious spoons of sugar. The smell of coffee and cardamon filled the air and they graciously served me some in a itty-bitty cup. The tiny cup was all I needed; one sip of that stuff has more kick than an angry donkey.

As for the bakLAAAva, Nazareth boasts a fantastic shop of these tasty nuts-coconut-dripping-with-honey treats. Got a glove and a box and picked out a selection. The problem is, with so many to choose from....., well I got a tummy ache from eating too much.

Nuts to this One-horse Roman town, I'm going to Nazareth!

I have never been the one to sit around and mope for my missing hubby. (Well, except for last X-mas but that doesn't count.) I have an independent streak that's a mile wide. For my Chickenless weeks, I have to find something to do on the weekends out of mere principle. I can smell adventure in the air.

So tomorrow, I am hopping on the 12:40 bus to Nazareth. Even though I have been there twice, I have yet to explore beyond the BIG CHURCH. This is the perfect opportunity since The Chicken has a short attention span for all things religious and frankly, doesn't love baklava the way I do. There is an awesome looking museum on rural life 2000 years ago, a few restaurants worth visiting and a couple more religious sites. All of which will be open on Saturday! Wooo Hooo!

You may be questioning the safety of a single female heading to an Arab town. However, when I mentioned my adventure to my labmates, they were all gung-ho for me going. That is saying something, since they have to be even more careful than us Christian tourists. Of all the Arab towns in Israel proper (i.e. not in the West Bank) Nazareth is most like a pair of pink fuzzy slippers- well maybe more like a pair of pink fuzzy hijabs, but you get the drift.

Uhhhh Must Drink Coffee....

I am writing you this while clutching on to my instant coffee like a lifeline.

Yesterday started with sprinting to the bus, missing it and having a 40 minute walk with a very grumpy Chicken. Then discovering that the air conditioning in my office is broken. Yesterday's forecast was 35 C with "moderate heat index." Pray tell, what on earth constitutes a "high heat index"?

Then was a super poopy morning at the nanocentre. My experiments and whole grand idea were a bust. I was doing AFM, where a tiny little record needle scans back and forth across a surface and senses the little bumps of my nanoparticles lying on top. Scan back and forth a bunch of times and you should get a nice picture of your nanoparticles. Instead of doing nano-imaging, I ended up doing nano-bulldozing. My record needle just pushed my nanoparticles around like billiard balls.

Then upstairs to the electrochemistry lab, where I was reminded why I hate electrochemistry. It seems I have to get it beaten back into me every few years. Idea number two bombed out and several days of experiments, several more days of data analysis and a few dreams were wasted.

To top it off, I have lost my source of hugs.

James has left for his two week summer vacation to Canada. I must say that I enjoyed being able to starfish in the bed after he caught the sherut at 2 am, but getting up in the morning was hell. I wanted to throw that devil alarm clock across the room. I much prefer it when James slowly teases me awake with nudges, pats on the arm and the occasional wet hair shake in the face. But don't tell him I said that.

For those of you who will see him: take care of him for me, will you. Make sure he eats his vegetables, wears sunscreen at the family BBQ, and buys himself a new belt.

What is wrong with me?

Don't ask me why, because I don't know why, but I was up before dawn and writing study notes on hybridization. Something must be wrong with me.

I don't even like hybridization, but there I was at 5:50 tap tap tapping away at my keyboard.

I can't even use them as is when/if I become a teacher, because I think they might be a touch too irreverent, especially when I say that hybridization is complete bull-hooey.

Back in Alberta, I must have explained the concept a bazillion times to students who didn't get it the first time through in class. With all that practice, I discovered a trick for helping them identify hybridization in molecules. I am sure someone has thought of the trick before, but regardless it seems to work.

Since some of you are chemistry teachers and TA's I thought you might a) laugh and b) find a useful tidbit or two.
Hybridization

I hope at least one of you will enjoy it.

The War of the Chick Pea

It is simply chick peas, sesame paste, lemon juice and olive oil.

But that doesn't stop Israelis from loving hummus to a passionate extent. It is the filler of bellies, the ubiquitous appetizer, and the elixir of life. Did you know that there is an entire dairy case for just hummus in the grocery store? The variety is overwhelming. When I have to buy it, I get into a panic of decision making, and just close my eyes and pick one at random.

What kind of olive oil? What is the chickpea to sesame ratio? What do you want on top? pesto? paprika? other unidentified green stuff? Little pool of olive oil? Are there whole chick peas floating around?

And no Israeli restaurant could open up shop with out at least four different kinds listed on the menu, usually fresh that day. The one we went to for my birthday had at about eight varieties and because of the open kitchen we saw the magic firsthand.
The cook takes a big serving spoon and dips it into a large pot to bring out a giant blob of warm hummus. With a flick of the wrist and a satisfying plop, the blob lands in a shallow bowl awaiting in the cook's other hand. With the back of the spoon he deftly swoops the hummus around the the edge and fills the resulting cavity with warm chick peas, olive oil or some other topping. Then the bell dings and the waitress carts it off to another hungry customer with a pate full of fresh pitas.

Besides all the culture and ceremony surrounding the eating of hummus, it has also has become a way for Israel and Lebanon to express their dislike of each other without using soldiers.

Last October, some dudes in Lebanon broke the Guinness Record for the biggest bowl of Hummus ever made. There Lebanon was, strutting around claiming to be the Queens and Kings of Hummus.

In January, those Hummus guys in Abu Gosh, in a surprise attack made a four tonne bowl of hummus to usurp the title. It was probably the only time the viciously competing Abu Gosh Hummus restaurants worked together for something. The nation of Israel celebrated.

Well this really cheesed off the Lebanese. By May, they had retaliated with a larger, ten tonne bowl of hummus and reclaimed their coveted title.

Do you think Israel will back down? NEVER! I am sure there are thicker plots and pots cooking in Abu Gosh as we speak.

Another Cooking Failure in Israel

So tomorrow is my birthday (hint hint) and my research group has a very backward tradition that the birthday girl or boy has to bring their own cake.

Seeing as I dislike cake, I thought "hey! I have leftover marshmallows from the BBQ. I'll take Rice Crispy Squares instead!"

Problem #1: While pacing the cereal aisle before Hebrew class this evening, I came to realize there are no Rice Crispies in Israel. Bright yellow corn flakes it is. Should be a tasty substitution.

Problem #2: About half my leftover marshmallows are pink, and as they started melting in the pot, I realized they were strawberry flavoured.

The result are the most radioactive and unappetizing rice crispy squares ever prepared.

I am finding this blog template kills colour in my photos, so click on the image to get the real colours.



I think I'll be going to the store to pick up some cakes early tomorrow morning.

What makes a man?

Today I had answered for me that one great philosophical question of growing up. Seeing as I never had a father-son relationship myself, I can only imagine what my father taught my brother about what makes a man. I would like to think that he learned from Dad that a man is made of things like responsibility, loyalty, earnestness, and perhaps (especially in my family) an innate need to chainsaw things.

But today, I learned that instead a man is made of other, less abstract, more edible, things. This nugget of wisdom was imparted to me by the back of the hot dog bun bags, five of which are left over from last night's very successful BBQ.




According to the image, a man is made of milk, eggs, cheese, vegetables and, of course, a hot dog bun.

You may be wondering how I ended up with so many hot dog buns. Well, the Israelis never cease to amaze me with their nuttiness. I should have guessed that they would prefer to put their hot dogs in their beloved pitas, purchased for dipping in the ever present hummus, rather than the buns. Oh well, they thought The Chicken and I were strange for wearing hats when were were a bit chilled late in the evening. They thought that perhaps hats at night was "a Canadian thing."

We successfully fed about twenty-five people, with vegetarians and kosher folks thrown in the mix. Gabi's team won the quiz, clinching the win by successfully choosing the correct definition of a"skidoo."

The s'mores were a bit of a hit. Ido's girlfriend, as soon as I mentioned them, was at the BBQ ready to start roasting the marshmallows. Apparently she spent one summer as a camp counselor in the states. From the sounds of things, the s'mores were the best part of that summer for her.

The real rare treat was when Itzik unexpectedly pulled out his accordion from the trunk of his car. He once told me that years ago, he gave up a future as a professional player (no kidding) to pursue chemistry. This was the first time I had heard him play. I must admit, I didn't know any of the tunes, but I enjoyed it greatly all the same.

Food from Home

Even after a over a year and a half the grocery store in Jerusalem is still an adventure.

Last night we needed to stock up for today's BBQ and thought that serving Killer Spicy Canadian Caesars would be a great idea.

Tabasco? check!

Vodka given to us free by someone doing pre passover cleaning? check!

Celery? check!

Clamato? beeeep.
We knew it would be impossible to find (clams don't meet the scales, feathers or cloven hooves laws of kosher meat) and furthermore, the locals got these horrified grossed out faces when I told them what it was. So, tomato juice it is.

Celery Salt? beeeep.
We hunted through the six kinds of paprika, several zatar spices, something called Yemenite Hwaig Seasoning, the usual cloves and cinnamon, but did not find any celery salt. We did however find a spice that seemed appropriate for Canada Day, but we decided to pass over "Redness" due to its complete dodginess.

I guess they will be a weak imitation of Killer Spicy Canadian Caesars. We will change their name to Weak Less-than-Fantastic Israeli Caesars.

To further the theme of Canadian food, James opened up his birthday presents this morning. Since he never did tell me what he wanted, while I was home I went to the grocery store and stocked up on impossible-to-find treats and then spent part of last evening wrapping them each up in my old Hebrew homework: fajita seasoning, salt and vinegar popcorn seasoning (they only have regular and BBQ potato chips around here and popcorn seasoning is a genius second best to potato chips), and the piece de resistance: two boxes of Kraft Dinner.

I also bought him pajama bottoms, in his beloved blue, and he promptly put them on and started dancing and twinkle toeing around the apartment like a lead footed ballerina.

The PJ bottoms are a compromise. The Chicken owns an old pair of track pants that with their high waisted draw string closure and gathered cuffs, they would compliment any human body by turning it into into the shape of a potato. Since I don't think I can convince The Chicken to wear a James Bond style tux around the house, I will trade the PJ bottoms for the dirty, old track pants.

Happy Birthday Chicken.