The secret of the jewish wealth,i cant change my ip address windows 8,the secret saturdays season 3 episode 8 zzstream - Test Out

04.02.2016
Dental Plus - Dental, Vision, Prescription and Chiropractic Care - all at significant savings! My interest in cooking began in early childhood when I learned from my maternal grandmother the complexities of making chicken soup, the panacea for all ills and the sine qua non of many a Jewish table.
Only then did the ritual, which required the eyes of a hawk and the skill of a prestidigitator begin. Holding the lid aloft in her left hand and with a ladle in her right, this maitresse de maison, this master-chef of her day, would, with votive patience remove the unappetizing grey foam which had formed on the soup before adding half-a-glass of ice cold water and a pinch of salt.
In addition to the run-of-the mill parsnips, celery, leeks and swedes, my grandmother swore by something called `root’ – a pungent cross between a carrot and a turnip – which I believe originated in Eastern Europe and today has faded into oblivion. Some three hours later, according to the age of the bird, the chicken was removed from the broth, the meat taken from the bones – later to be disguised with a tasty sauce – and the carcass returned to the saucepan. The soup, now ready, was not yet complete and it was here that, as sous-chef I came into my own. The dirty secret of Hollywood, as comedian Rob Corddry said, is that everybody listens to Howard Stern. The guest list is pure Stern: On the one hand, yet-to-be-named politicians and cultural icons like David Letterman and Sarah Silverman. Why have some ethnic groups succeeded far beyond the norm in America, the authors asked, while others lagged behind?
Looking at Jews along with the Chinese, Mormons and Indians, Chua, who is Chinese-American, and Rubenfeld, her Jewish husband, pinpoint three traits that account for success. Mary Gale kept her Jewish identity secret for 70 yearsThere is a list of horrors rattling around inside Mary Gale’s head.
The 86-year-old tells me the story of her life, starting from the happy beginning as a girl growing up in a middle-class Jewish family in Lodz, Poland, a family that, like so many other Jewish families would be torn apart by the horrors of the Holocaust. But Mary Gale has spent the past 70 years living with a burdensome secret, a lie she no longer wishes to conceal.
It was a sleight of hand that ultimately saved Miriam Zimmerman’s life and a life-giving lie she continued to live with even after the war. Not even to her son, Tom, who, after a terrible car accident near Ottawa during his university years went looking for the big answers in life and found religion, converted to Judaism, changed his name to Gershon and moved to Israel where, to this day, he leads an orthodox life. Mary, her mother Rosa and sister, Helen, were sent to Buchenwald concentration camp — as Polish political prisoners.


So she did, celebrating Christmas, and dropping Anita, her youngest child, at the Anglican Church for confirmation classes. Now she is telling the world, thanks to a memoir written with the help of Ruth Krongold, a volunteer with The Azrieli Foundation and Ryerson University’s Sustaining Memories Project, which documents survivor’s stories.
The preparation started at first light, silence and solitude, which concentrated the mind, being two key ingredients. The preparation of the bird, still in possession of its innards, was not for the faint-hearted for whom today’s prepared, pre-packed, cellophane-wrapped portions are a doddle. Three times, with the solemnity of a priestess at the altar, my grandmother would repeat the process. Salt and white pepper and a few threads of genuine saffron, soaked in hot water, enhanced the flavour as did a cube of sugar by whose magical powers my grandmother swore. When the cooking, preferably carried out a day before the soup was needed, was done, and the contents of the saucepan cooled, it was strained through a fine-meshed sieve into a clean bowl. The addition of `matzoh balls’ – matzoh meal, beaten egg, chicken fat and water – rolled with wetted hands and solid as bullets or ethereal as gossamer, according to your skill, was mandatory: it was my turn to shine and when the soup was served and a dozen spoons tackled the motley collection of spheres, I held my childish breath. Today’s women have better things to do and chicken soup does not rank high on their agendas.
A generation has been raised on his brand of humor, and it is somehow heartening to hear them come into the studio, one after another, and tell Howard how much he has influenced them. On the other, an assortment of freaks Stern has made regulars — Elephant Boy, Bobo, Marianne from Brooklyn. She can pinpoint exactly when the lie began because it had to begin somewhere in order for her to survive.
Even after marrying Arthur Gale and moving to Canada and becoming a mother who never really talked to her children about those terrible years because what could she possibly say? She weighed 80 pounds at the time of liberation and, in the months ahead, would fall in love with Arthur Gale, a Canadian charged with running their displaced persons camp. She revealed her Jewish identity to Anita then, swearing her to secrecy, a secret she let slip to her eldest daughter, Christine, during a trip back to Warsaw for her 80th birthday.
I can see my grandmother now, a formidable woman who, given the opportunity, could have masterminded a business, run a bank, removed an appendix or captured the Falklands, a veritable ladle-wielding Boadicea, standing in her kitchen with its free-standing enameled gas-cooker and oil-cloth-covered table overseeing a black enamel pot large enough to bath a baby in. My grandmother took it in her stride and once the bird had been groomed to her satisfaction, held it up by the legs for a final inspection before tossing it nonchalantly into the pot, covering it with cold water and, in a Herculean effort, heaving it on to the stove.


Too slow and the anticipated scum would have come and gone, too quick and it would not yet have formed. The correct rate of simmer having been assessed – one languid bubble breaking the surface of the liquid every few minutes – stage one of the ritual was complete. The flaccid vegetables were discarded, and the giblets – for those who fancied neck, stomach and feet – were returned to the broth which, when cool enough, I was allowed to place gently into the ante-deluvian fridge where it would have turned into a jelly, the fat solidified into a rich layer at the top. On family occasions however, when I look round my well-filled dining-table, when I politely declare my daughters’ culinary efforts superior to my own, I wonder whether we have locked the door on a heritage informed by culinary tradition and thrown away the key.
Her father, Menachem, obtained false identity papers for the family and, in 1939, at the stroke of a forger’s pen Miriam Zimmerman — a blond-haired, blue-eyed Polish Jew — became Mary Plochocka, a blond-haired, blue-eyed Polish Gentile.
When the broth was cleared to her satisfaction, my grandmother would breathe a sigh of relief, lower the gas flame and turn her attention to the vegetables of which a minimum of eight were required.
Breathing a sigh of relief my grandmother removed her apron leaving the soup to simmer for eight hours by which time it would have transmogrified into a translucent and golden liquid which would pervade the whole house with a fragrance guaranteed to stimulate a remembrance of things past. This was carefully removed and (in the carefree days before the link between hydrogenated fats and high cholesterol was recognized), used for frying or baking.
While the French have their frogs legs and their cassoulet, the Italians their pasta, the Germans their Tafelspitz, the Bangladeshes their rice, the Hungarians their goulash, the Pakistanis their chapattis and the Indians their sambas and rasams, will my own occasional efforts to perpetuate my grandmother’s chicken-soup preserve, for a generation at least, not only my inextricable links with my maternal grandmother, but with my own past? When the moment was right, the lid would be whipped off and the ritual, (which would ensure a translucent broth rather than a muddy and opaque liquid), would begin.
Eating is a basic activity that is necessary not only for survival but is inextricably connected with social function. Eating habits, the choice of companions and the reasons behind these choices are fundamental to the fostering and understanding of our society. Were my grandmother to taste some of the efforts to reproduce her ambrosia they would not pass muster.



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