Hebonics

Phoenix, Thanks for all the links. I actually managed to get into the site without my computer turning itself off. The secret ingredient was not revealed. And frankly I was appalled to see the words "food processor" used in connection with latkes. Feh double pooh. I grate with my grandma's grater. Food processors make the mixture too fine. And where's the fun in pushing a button? What's to kvetch about? How can a poysin claim to have slaved over the latkes when all the poysin did was push a button?

Olga, The "le" added to stuff mean "little." A suffix of endearment. Did you get real latkes--with matzo meal (pronounced "mel") or did you get latkes made with, gasp, flour? Oh, the horror. And no, I'm not gonna get into a dispute over technicalities.

Dlowan, dahlink. Still with the gas? If the bromo isn't working, maybe a bissel Maalox will help.

dys, Mazel tov re the burro. You should both live and be well.

Beth, No such thing as too many latkes. But if you can get a good kugel, more power to ya.

Walter, What's a magenkugel?

Yes, a resurrection. I felt like hebonicking. So sue me. I gotta ask permission to bring back an oldie but goodie? Fuggedaboudit.

So how's by everybody?

Me? You shouldn't know from it. But I'm still breathing, which is a good thing. No, I'm not talking like Martha Stewart. There can be good things without her in the picture. Sometimes a good thing is just a good thing--like breathing.

I give you people the best minutes of my online life, and what happens? You don't call. You don't write. That's the thanks I get.

You think that all I have to do is think about you? Oy! You shouldn't know from the tzorres. Besides, telephone lines run two ways!

'Boita!! So this is the thanks we get for only worrying ourselves sick about you? Like Auntie Pheonix says, the furschlugginer telephone works both ways. So wha' hoppen to you already? You go to the Macy's Labor Day sale and get lost in the corset department for all this time? What, what already?

You think we don't care? What is that meshugana (sp?).

Phoenix, You got some fresh pisk on you. Look what you started.

I should make long-distance calls with no money? I don't think so, bubbele. If you did't live out in the country somewhere, maybe. But so far. You might as well be in China.

But I'm glad you responded. Glad to see Andrew and Osso, too. And, Phoenix, I love a fresh pisk.

What am I, a schmuck?

I need this gibberish at this hour of the evening?





<how's that? sound genuine?>

snood, Gibberish! Another fresh pisk! And maybe by you it's late. By me, the shank of the evening.

Everything is relative.

Relatives! Why do you ask already? Should I just start..

I just reread this whole thread. Yes, the whole shmear. Laughed out loud more than once. Smiled a lot.

I had time to read this whole megilla? No. I should have been doing other things. That's why I read the whole thread.

It occurs to me that everyone I knew who actually spoke Yiddish is gone. Dead. Everyone I knew who called me Roboita is gone. I mean the ones who didn't know that wasn't the way to pronounce it.

It feels good to come here. Like old home week. It takes me back.

Didn't mean to get sad and mushy. Not ferklempt or anything like that. Just thoughtful about things.

To lighten things up, I can relate the story of Milton the Turtle. Milton was a box turtle. He was found along the roadside of a Noo Joisey town and brought back to the Bronx. Although he was my Aunt Bessie's toitle, he lived upstairs with my grandmother (in the same building on the Grand Concourse), because she had extra rooms. Yes, Milton had his own room. My grandmother let him swim around in the bathtub regularly. Yet she detected that something was wrong. She reported to my aunt that Milton seemed depressed. "Is he eating?" A sure sign that something was wrong was not eating. "Not as much as he used to."

My aunt decided to check on Milton. I arrived at the building for a visit to find my aunt sitting out on the street on a folding chair. She had Milton with her. She was teasing him with her apron string. (Yes, she was wearing her apron out on the street.) The apron string used to get a rise out of Milton, but not this night. My aunt pronounced that Milton was, indeed, unhappy.

Family conference. We decided to return Milton to the wild. We drove out to the town where he was found, to the place by the side of the road where he was found. He was released. Good-bye, Milton.

BTW, Milton was my aunt's husband's name. My Uncle Miltie. The resemblance was uncanny.

I have nothing to say smart about Milton, let him be well.

What is your cat doing already?

Didn't answer that question, didn't I :wink:

Source

Osso, Turtles live for a long time. For all we know, Milton is living and being well in Noo Joisey. As for the monster cat, he also is living and being well--and big. He's got a hyperthyroid condition. It makes him vocalize a lot. As I said on another thread. Hey Mikey. Shut up.

Walter, Thanks for the kugel info. I've had luchsen kugel and pototo kugel. Never the innards kugel

What's with all the weird kugels?


Potato kugel isn't enough for you?


Enough with the kugel already.

Great resurrection of the thread, 'Boita!

I'm sure I've heard a story somewhere about something/someone Jewish coming back from the dead, but I'm sure it was just a myth! :wink:

So what's so great about that? Now if he had been a doctor..................

Then he would have had no problem finding himself a nice Jewish girl, settling down and making his old mother proud...

Deb, The kind of kugel Walter was talking about, maybe I'll eschew. I make pototo kugel. Very good--not great. But my grandmother made a lukchen (noodle) kugel to die for. Haven't had one of those in decades.

When I make chicken soup (I make it to die for), I always think of the noodles as lukchen. It just seems more authentic that way. Noodles in the soup are the skinny kind. Noodles in kugel are the big fat kind.

Come to think of it, I wrote a poem about chicken soup--often referred to as Jewish penicillen. Duck, here it comes:

When your nose is stuffed
And your throat is sore
And you're coughing up stuff you never saw before,
When your bones are creaking
And your poor head aches,
You have to do whatever it takes.
So throw a chicken into a pot.
Add some greens, carrots, onions,
And cook it a lot.
'Cause chicken soup is the magic brew.
It's good for whatever ails you--
A cold, the flu, scurvy, the runs,
Rickets, dropsy, epilepsy, sore gums,
Cholera, leprosy, and phlebitis,
Beriberi, asthma, and meningitis,
Trench mouth, bronchitis, and the bends,
Pinkeye, angina--the list never ends.
So have soup now with whatever else you desire.
It's chicken soup now,
Or you may just expire.

Oy veh! A jewish Shakespeare come amongst us!

So...what is the complete recipe for this magical soup?


You plan to sit on this golden egg forever?