If I forget thee, NYTimes, may my right hand wither

Oh, dear reader, so much to say, but how to say it. Well, I'm just going to yank the cat out of the bag. I am moving to Israel. Yes, Israel. The home of my ancestors, and a very special place to renew the bond to that particular piece of land that this world weary Jew is eager to find some solace in. Reading the NYTimes this weekend at my sister's house, where I went to incomprehensibly say goodbye to her three young children (the elder two sadly, and reticently understood, the littlest one didn't), I found myself saying goodbye to something else I love in the most intimate of ways. As per my usual routine these days, I languish about the paper, molesting the photographs and reading whatever strikes my fancy with an almost childlike sense of wonder. I adore it, and am already living in its rapturous nostalgia. Ay me.

As I lay in bed Saturday night, after the Sabbath and thoughtful as can be, it dawned on me how I can revel in my nostalgia in a thoroughly rich way. I am going to save up my papers from here on in, and wrap my tea cups and other delicate collectibles in them. I can think of nothing more satisfying than to be able to cloak these objects in this great, daily American newspaper that imbues our existences with noble sentiments that propel important journalism. Articles about the importance of women's education in crafting a smaller, more sophisticated populace could be wrapped around my Royal Albert Blossom Time tea cup, evoking the splendor of such undertaking in societies where women can hold those tea cups, filled with the beverage of their choice, and converse with each other freely about life while the children play elsewhere in the house. Their gentle voices fill the air with a sweet music that assures and excites the children about the beautiful lives their mother's lead, and how they want to grow up to be just like them. Perhaps there is a great newspaper, like the NYTimes or the Wall Street Journal, lying around with its beautiful words filling the air, and lifting the level of the room even higher towards bright horizons.

When my tea cups arrive in Israel, wrapped in the NYTimes Weekender, I am eager to have that little piece of American beauty arrive with my tea cups, however ephemerally, to imbue that moment with the same noble air I receive every time I read this paper, and it educates me about important matters that transport me to greater planes of learning and growing as a person. And how appropriate, really, that this fine vessel should be adorned as such. You might think it a waste (even though I will be salvaging whatever I can), but I think it the most suitable pairing of a fine item and a simple one (although, which is which?). So suitable in fact, that it forms an inverse relation of reflection of one another's value. One must value the newspaper the same way one does the tea cup; the tea cup is made finer by its relation to a person who appreciates the value of a good drink that goes along, or better yet, enables a good read. It's intrinsic value is tied to its bearer. So to, the newspaper is just a good read, but if you cherish it the same way I do, dine on it in a manner of speaking, then it can light up your life in the most brilliant of ways, and acts as a beacon of truth and beauty, every time you bring it home and place it on your kitchen table, and create an opportunity to have others kiss your mind. I don't know how fruitful my philosophical exercise just was, but it was meaningful to me, the same way the NYTimes is, and I am so happy that I can so richly take a favorite piece of my old home, to my new one. Yay.

Bella Vita

Or, in other words, the good life. This is what my lunch was today; an artful and harmonious plate that I arranged for me and my lovely mother. A lovely little feast for the senses, with balance and beauty (albeit lacking in substantial protein). It was delicious, and highly nutritious :)

The table, set.


Sour Cream with scallions, salt, and a bit of black pepper.



A whole mango, sliced.



The most amazing chips ever. They are flamous.





And of course, the greens are Cilantro. I will miss tortilla chips when I move to Israel next month, but I can only imagine the terrific array of exciting Middle Eastern foods which will stand in stead of American bounty.