Do Over

Tuesday, Day 20 - Sometimes I am my own worst enemy.  This was one of those times.

As a result of my lack of due diligence, tomorrow is a colonoscopy do over. Don't ask; you wouldn't want the details.

So as I spend another day in purdah, away from my kitchen (because if I cook, I taste), I am enjoying quality time with Chelsea.  My little sweetheart has discovered the joy of sleeping with her head on my pillow, and who am I to discourage her?  While she alternates snoring and wheezing, both completely normal for her, I am looking at Sephardic Passover recipes.  I wish I knew definitively if  my one-eighth Dutch heritage is also Sephardic, but I haven't even tried to delve into that level of genealogical research. Being seven-eighths pure shtetl Ashkenazi has always dominated my personal history, culture, and culinary roots.  Except for falafel, but everybody eats falafel.  Our family name - Nathan, or Natan - could be Sephardic.  History tells us that following the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitions, many of those Jews (including crypto-Jews) headed to the Netherlands.  My mother-who-died-much-too-young had the maiden name of Nathan, and we know the Nathans were Dutch.  I think of myself as a speculative Sephardi, and that lets me work with rice, peas and beans during Passover.

For Pesach, I plan to make a farfel stuffing to accompany the turkey that our hostess is preparing for Seder and Friday night.  No rice, peas or beans, mind you; one woman's speculation is another woman's kitniyot. But there shall be matzo farfel instead of bread, and lot and lots of fried onions and celery.

Having made serious inroads on the clear and convincing chicken soup, I have already turned my thoughts to split pea soup.  After 3 days of prep for the damn colonoscopy, all I can do is dream of food.  Truly, I cannot wait until this is over.

One thing I will never dream about again is Jell-o.  I always liked Jell-o, but haven't eaten it since my gastric bypass 12 years ago.  Apparently I've lost my taste for it, and now all I can think of is a Color War song from Camp Anawana, circa 1960-1962:

The punch is so mellow,
it tastes like melted Jell-o
and the next day we all look grim.
And the clinic line is growing,
because we all are going,
and Doc Goldstein just gives us Coricidan.