Tales from the Shark Tank

Sekanjabin was invented by the Arabs in the middle ages, as a beverage that makes it easier to deal with heat.  It starts out as a syrup, to be mixed into cold water.  It serves much the same purpose as sports drinks are supposed to, but without all the undecipherable chemicals.  Those eleventh century Moors knew what they were doing; the stuff not only works, it tastes wonderful.

The basic recipe calls for sugar, vinegar, water and mint.  With the heat index at 100 F., now was a good time to make a batch, and me being who I am, I couldn’t resist messing with it.  The result is good enough to share.

Ginger Sekanjaben

• 1 1/2 cups honey
• 3/4 cup water
• 1 cup cider vinegar
• pinch salt
• juice and grated rind of 1 lemon
• 2 inch piece of fresh ginger, sliced
• handful of fresh mint (about 5 generous sprigs)

Mix honey, water, vinegar and salt in a heavy pan.  Bring to a boil over medium heat.  Reduce heat to simmer.  Add lemon and ginger.  Simmer 30 minutes.

Remove from heat.  Stir in mint.  Let cool to room temperature.

Strain.  Pour into a suitable jar.  Dilute to taste; I use about 1 tsp per cup of water.  The syrup does not require refrigeration.

“I’m not saying it’s hot out, but I ran into Satan in the parking lot and he said he was going home to cool off”

Some months back, our temple started adult Hebrew language classes. They were far more basic than I’d anticipated, but I figured a review couldn’t hurt me. What I wanted from it was comprehension - vocabulary, grammar, that sort of thing. When I was a kid, we were taught the alphabet, and how to sound out words, and that was all. It remained meaningless phonemes. To me, that was pointless. It’s not supposed to be an incantation to be recited without any understanding.

But somehow even with the Titanic-sized holes in my knowledge, I turned out to be far ahead of the others. So rather than sit there and be politely bored, (a thing I have never done gracefully) I started helping the woman who was struggling the most, pointing to each syllable (sometimes each letter) and reminding her of the sound of it when she asked. The rabbi, teaching the class, worked with the other five people and mostly left H. to me. I thought it made perfect sense. H. needs more than all the rest of us put together, and even if it isn’t saying much, I’m still the most advanced of the group.

It seems teaching is teaching. The rabbi took me aside this morning, said she’d been watching me with H. and that it was clear I knew how to teach, and asked me to take the intermediate Hebrew class for the Hebrew School. She’d thought of everything, including arranging someone else to take the class once a month so that I could go down to Indy when I needed to. So I’ll be doing that, and teaching the kids the songs as well. Not a thing I ever envisioned myself doing, but here I am. It’s a good thing J. is going to be in the bar mitzvah prep class as of this coming year, because he really doesn’t want to be in Mom’s class. And the real challenge? Staying one jump ahead of my students. At least I won’t forget my Hebrew again.

Our boy has been watching the Star Wars prequel trilogy, chosen as his reward for his grades. One of the villains uses a two-ended lightsaber, wielding it essentially like a quarterstaff. (Sometime medieval reenactor that I am, I find myself analyzing his style and technique, but that’s another story.) So he decided he wanted to try to fight with a staff. His chosen partner, of course, was me.

But then there was the small matter of what to use for a staff. No problem - he has K’Nex. So he strings together a bunch of them to make two staffs. They are very light and very flexible, unlikely to hurt anyone. They also don’t hold together very well. So if the wielder moves too fast, or in the wrong direction, the things simply fall apart.

So we faced off, whereupon much laughter ensued. He would swing, and I would block, and pieces of both staffs would go tumbling. Or I would snap a feint, only to have one eight-inch section of the staff stay in my hands while the rest landed on the floor. I suppose, though, that it really is an ideal weapon. It’s hard to hurt anyone when your weapons self destruct if they come into contact with anything, or even with nothing if you swing them too quickly. I can’t help wondering how Robin Hood’s story would have differed if Little John’s staff had been made of K’nex.

Took my mom to see her doc last Friday. The purpose of the visit was to review the results of cognitive testing that was done about six weeks ago. Guess what? The psychologist’s office that performed the test hadn’t sent the results! So I arranged for J. to spend the day at a friend’s house (usually it’s only a few hours) and drove down to very little purpose. A friend has pointed out it wasn’t to no purpose, that being in the loop counts, but I must admit it still feels that way.

But the doc said that the test hadn’t been to determine if there was memory loss to the point of impairing mother’s ability to take care of herself, only to determine how far it had progressed. She’s quite sure of what she’s seeing, and talking to me had evidently confirmed something she’d already suspected. So she started Mom on a medication intended to slow memory loss and help keep what’s left, and we made a follow-up appointment, at which we should have those test results. And if this is going to work, ultimately, I need to get into the habit of calling and checking on Mom daily. I’m sure I’ll find other new habits I need as we go on, but that one will do to start with.

Our son just made the straight-A honor roll.

It’s a good thing I don’t have buttons; they’d have burst. And when I think about where we started with him, I am in awe of his accomplishment.

My son was waiting for me to put my shoes on and go outside to play kickball with him. After several checks at 2-second intervals, I finally said “I have one shoe on, and the other in my hand. I will get done faster if I don’t have to keep giving you a blow-by-blow report. Patience, child!”

Then I had to adjust the shoe laces on shoe number two, so it took perhaps a whole minute. I was putting it on my foot when I heard “I’m being patient.” I didn’t answer, being folded in half and engaged in tightening said laces.

“Did you hear me, Mom?” came floating from over by my bedroom door. “I’m being really patient!”

And then he wondered why I burst out laughing.

Our son, being bored and in a mood to decorate a cake, asked that I make one. I, being of a mind to encourage the creativity but not wanting to overdo the indulgence quotient, decided to make angel food. We’re a small family (three humans), so I’ve invested in some appropriately sized cake pans. The 7-inch tube pan does half-size sponge and angel cakes beautifully, and a pair of 6-inch round pans will make a half-size layer cake. (I know, I could just bake a single layer instead of 2, but he likes the way a 2 layer cake looks, so I just make it smaller.)

So I went looking through my cookbooks for an angel food cake recipe. Each one used twice as much sugar as egg-white by volume. That meant that a full size cake would contain 12 egg whites, 1 1/4 cups of flour and 3 cups of sugar. No wonder it tastes of nothing else! Low fat it may be, but that is all that can be said for it. By comparison, my favorite yellow butter cake contains 3/4 cup of butter, 1 1/2 cups of sugar, 3 cups of flour and 4 eggs.

So just on a hunch, I pulled my grandmother’s 1957 Joy of Cooking off my shelf. And I was right. Same amount of egg white, a little more flour, and half the amount of sugar. So that is the cake I made. It didn’t bake up with the crackly macaroon-y brown crust of a modern angel cake recipe, but I consider that no particular loss. And it has an actual flavor. You can taste the lemon juice, vanilla and almond extract in it. In other words, it isn’t just sweet inflated cardboard. It’s an actual cake, and one I’ll enjoy eating.

1957 Angel Food Cake

Preheat oven to 325^o F.

1 1/2 cups egg white
1/2 tsp. cream of tartar
1/2 tsp salt
2 Tbsp. lemon juice
1 tsp. almond extract
1 tsp. vanilla extract (or 1/2 tsp. vanilla powder)
1 1/2 cups sugar
1 1/2 cups cake flour, sifted before measuring

In a large, clean dry mixing bowl, beat egg whites until foamy. Add cream of tartar. Beat until they increase in volume, then gradually add lemon juice, salt and extracts. Continue to beat until they just form clear peaks. Gradually add sugar while beating at medium speed, then beat a little longer, until lifting the beater leaves peaks that fold over a little at the tip, and the whites are still very shiny and moist looking.

Carefully fold in flour, a couple of tablespoons at a time, until no visible flour remains. Pour into an ungreased 9 or 10 inch tube pan. Run a butter knife through in a spiral to break up any big bubbles and to level the batter. Bake for 50-60 minutes, or until the cake starts to pull away from the sides of the pan and is lightly browned on top.

Invert the pan over a bottle and let the cake cool completely before removing from the pan. Enjoy.

Update: I made a half-size cake. I wasn’t sure Da Boychick would like angel-cake, nor if he would like mine since what he’d had at his grandparent’s house came from the grocery. General results of experiment: I need to make another cake for him to decorate tomorrow.

Not my cats, certainly.

Miss Cloud, who is not allowed outside, has suddenly taken to ducking past ankles at every opportunity to attempt to explore the Tall Grass Jungle and Land of New Smells. Today when she did that, her sister Tornado was out as well. Now, those two can’t manage a civil conversation at the best of times, and Tornado, experienced outdoorswoman that she is, decided it would be fun to give Cloud a hard time. So every time Cloud stopped to sniff something, Tornado would bounce at her, stopping just short of pouncing on her when Cloud jumped away. The problem is that she was doing that as I was trying to walk calmly up to Cloud with intent to pick her up and return her to the safety of the house.

After the fourth time I got close, only to have Tornado startle Cloud into running away again, I looked down at the little black cat looking up at me. “Tornado” I told her “you aren’t helping.” She sat down on her little butt, blinked at me, and said “Mreow?” with an unmistakable cat-smirk. Then she got up, chased Cloud one last time, and sauntered off with a glance over her shoulder at me.

The next time I tried to get to Cloud and pick her up, I was able to without any problem. I’m not sure, though, whether Tornado’s commentary translated best as “So?” or “And your point is?” I don’t suppose it much matters what the English is, though. The sentiment was clear enough in the original Cat.

Every so often I really listen to myself and hear my own habits of speech. The way I speak of my cats is a perfect case in point. Ever since Cloud stood on my hand and hissed defiance at the two adult cats, I’ve referred to Tornado and Sophia collectively as “the big girls”. Our son will come in from school and inquire as to the whereabouts of the cats, to be told “Both the big girls are out, and Cloud is on the bathroom windowsill.” Or at bedtime, I will find myself telling him “I don’t know where the big girls are. Can you make do with the baby-girl?” (It’s a make-do because Miss Cloud won’t stay to cuddle until he falls asleep. Sophia is the best about that.)

So my grey-scale cats are “the big girls”, despite the fact that Cloud is a quarter again bigger than either Tornado or Sophia. And since I don’t see myself changing the verbal habit any time soon, I suspect they always will be.