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.