tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44739173268655987552024-03-08T08:18:58.867-05:00Shiksa From ManilaStories by Sophia RomeroSophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-22487808282650568902010-05-25T07:02:00.001-05:002010-05-25T07:04:42.223-05:00Dayyenu (or Enough Already)O Ruler of the Universe, if only they had taken a puff of dope instead of inhaling the whole joint,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only they had taken a sip instead of gulping the whole bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one swig,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only they had kept their vomit to themselves instead of puking all over my hand-knotted silk rug,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only they had said that my Mac and Cheese was slightly overcooked instead of announcing on Facebook that it was so burned they almost called 911,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only they had used Dan’s aftershave instead of my Prada perfume to cover up the cigarettes they were smoking in the living room,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only they had asked their friends to go home instead of inviting them to crash on my king-size bed,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only I didn’t own a king-size bed,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only those same friends had the leftover pizza for breakfast instead of going after the cheese cakes I made for my mother and mother-in-law for Mother’s Day,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only they were allergic to cheese cake,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />And while we’re on the subject of mothers,<br /><br />If only my explanation for a dildo—that it was a battery-operated penis--was enough, <br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only they hadn’t asked why a penis would have to be battery-operated and why anyone would ever need one,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only they hadn’t asked if it was covered by Medicare,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only I had been told that the reason I was an only child for the longest time was because my father was always traveling instead of telling me that he couldn’t get an erection,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only they had simply sent me a birthday card instead of timing this revelation to coincide with my 40th birthday,<br />---Dayyenu<br /><br />If only they had kept this fact to themselves or apologized after the fact instead of saying, “Why would that upset you?”<br />---DayyenuSophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-49224678497241797882009-12-11T12:42:00.000-05:002009-12-11T12:54:09.850-05:00Pig Heaven“An elderly rabbi retired from his duties in the congregation and he decided to fulfill his lifelong fantasy to taste pork. He went to a hotel in the Catskills in the off-season (not his usual hotel, mind you), entered the empty dining hall, and chose a table far in the corner. The waiter arrived, and the rabbi ordered roast suckling pig. As the rabbi waited, struggling with his conscience, a family from his congregation walked in! They immediately saw the rabbi, of course, and since no one should eat alone, they joined him. The rabbi began to sweat. Finally, the waiter arrives with a huge domed platter. He lifted the lid to reveal—what else?—a whole roast suckling pig, complete with an apple in the mouth. “This place is amazing!” cried the rabbi. “You order a baked apple, and look what you get!”--Alan King<br /><br />No one should have to feel guilt or shame in wanting to eat pork.<br /><br />I am an avowed swinophile, a porcavore, a pig lover. I’ll even say it, “I love pig!” Nothing makes me happier than indulging in a meal of deep fried pork belly or roasted pork butt or having a glass of Sancerre and a bag of chicharron (pork skins) by my side. Whenever people ask what Filipino food is like I don’t waste any time. I always give the short and sweet answer: pig. In all its forms, no parts wasted. I grew up eating my mother’s wonderful dish of pig’s ears and tofu cooked in vinegar, garlic, soy sauce and black pepper. Whenever my dog and I go into a pet store and see pig’s ears, she and I go into a frenzy over who will get the ears first.<br /> <br />Filipino cuisine is essentially anything that is soaked, fried, braised, or boiled in pork fat. If there’s actual pork, so much the better. The pig is an important part of Philippine culture and every major life cycle event. Weddings, baptisms, Sweet 16s, anniversaries, and graduations are celebrated by roasting a whole pig on a bamboo spit. The 40th day of someone’s passing is commemorated with a lechon served to family and friends.<br /><br />When my uncle died in the Philippines several years ago and I couldn’t go back for the funeral, I decided to send money as custom dictated to his family. This was a dilemma. Having lived away for so long, I was unsure about the appropriate amount to send. If I sent too little, I would risk insulting my grieving relatives. If I sent too much, I would be accused of capitalist arrogance for waving my greenbacks at them. In a conversation with one of my cousins, I hit upon a solution and asked, “How many lechons would this amount buy?” In my mind, I was calculating for two weeks worth of groceries.<br /> <br />My cousin replied, “Enough to feed them pig every day for a month and more!”<br /> <br />It’s a shame that a pig has to be consumed to be fully appreciated for all its worth. I see no reason why it shouldn’t occupy a seat at the table just like the rest of us. Of course nobody likes to sit next to a pig. A pig on a spit is so much better than having it by your elbow or in a book or in a movie.<br /><br />I remember never being able to finish reading Charlotte’s Web to my children because my mind was too distracted by the possibilities of what Wilbur could become. The movie Babe was absolute torture because all I could think of was all that pork going to waste. At one point, it was suggested to me that I leave the theatre because not only was my stomach growling too loudly, I was also moaning and groaning too much. Before our family got a pet dog, I seriously contemplated acquiring a Vietnamese pot belly pig instead, an idea that was immediately shot down because of suspicions that my intentions were totally unkosher. <br /><br />So when I turned 51, I only wanted one thing. I wanted lechon, a whole pig not just in parts but the big, fat sucker with the crispy, caramel-colored skin. So crisp that as you sank your teeth into it there was this crackling, staccato sound, the true sign of a properly roasted animal. Other women might ask for a 5 carat diamond, a trip to Lucca with a select group of girlfriends, or a Porsche Carrerra. Not me. I just wanted a pig.<br /><br />It’s true you cannot put a pig on your finger and flash that finger around while playing mahjong or feign a headache in front of your admiring girlfriends, that same finger strategically placed across your face so that they can see your rock. Pigs do not sparkle in the light I’m afraid. Nor can you drive a pig on the LIE with the top down on a nice summer day, going from zero to sixty in six seconds, leaving the rest of those unfortunate minions behind in their practical maroon minivans. Pigs don’t come with turbo.<br /><br />But who wants to drive a pig when you can simply eat it?<br /><br />There was only one teeny problem with Project Birthday Pig: my husband is a nice Jewish boy from Queens who also happens to be a vegetarian. <br /> <br />He has been a vegetarian from the time he was 16, ever since his mother botched an attempt to cook lobster. He simply will not eat what he cannot kill although over time he has made exceptions for fish. Between you and me however, I have yet to see him snap a fish head in two. I on the other hand have no problem grabbing a live lobster with my bare hands, driving a French knife through its belly and throwing it on the grill. <br /> <br />For someone who didn’t come from an observant home or was raised kosher, he will bring-up Leviticus whenever the subject of pig comes up. You know, the part where it says, “And the pig, though it has a split hoof completely divided, does not chew the cud; it is unclean for you. You must not eat their meat or touch their carcass.”<br />Like, Leviticus would stop me. Can you imagine my pain and disappointment when I was told that there could be no lechons for the bar and bat mitzvahs of my children? It was non-negotiable as far as Dan was concerned.<br /><br />Most of the time, the challenges he and I face in our marriage have less to do with our religious and cultural differences than the food we like to eat.<br /><br />Don’t get me wrong. My husband loves me. Deeply, loyally, patiently. We have been together 23 years and he has never wavered in that love. He may not share in my pig obsession (and frankly, not many people do) but to his credit he has never held it against me nor has he ever asked me to become a vegetarian. I did go on a meatless diet early in our marriage in the spirit of matrimonial unity and harmony but that didn’t last. Deep-fried tofu just isn’t the same as pork shoulder fried in a gallon of Canola oil.<br /><br />Every Christmas Eve, he will prepare a ham dinner for my sake just like the family dinners I used to enjoy as a child before my parents separated; before I left Manila where I could rely on an invitation from a relative or friend to have ham on Christmas eve; before my mother who lives on Roosevelt Island stopped cooking Christmas dinners because it became too difficult and unwieldy for her at her age.<br /><br />It takes courage for a nice, vegetarian Jewish boy from Queens to cook his Filipino-Catholic wife a ham. That’s why I call him the good egg. The first time he cooked ham for me, he went to Eagle Provisions, the 5th avenue Polish food store, on the suggestion of a girlfriend who like me, is also a pig fan. He bought the ham, asked them to wrap it in many layers of thick brown paper and triple-bag it for the ride home. When it was time to stick it in the oven, he wore gloves that went up to his elbows and balanced the ham on tongs that extended out from his hands a little further. He looked like Edward Scissorhands without the hair. He checked on the ham by asking the kids to see if it was ready. I was not allowed into the kitchen, not even to take a peek, despite my expertise. It was the best tasting ham ever.<br /><br />So given that he was a good sport about the ham all these years and that my birthday was coming up, how hard would it be to trade up to full swine? The more I thought about the pig, the bigger and fatter it loomed before me. But how was I going to convince Dan to give me one considering that apart from being a vegetarian, he and the pig share a past? <br /><br />In 1988, we were on holiday in Boracay, a tiny island in the Philippines. Throughout the day, a pig was roasting on the beach to be served that night to the resort guests. As we lay on the sand alternately repulsed (that would be him) and tantalized by the smell of cooking flesh (that would be me), there was a another group of live animals reaching a high of their own. Unknown to us, there were bats living among the coconut trees next to the resort where we were staying. By the time the sun set and the pig was served, splayed on a banana leaf-covered buffet table, the bats were sufficiently wound up and went full throttle. They descended upon the resort, swooping down like kamikaze pilots at maddening speed, moving in for the kill.<br /> <br />We were in our little bamboo cottage, getting ready for dinner when we found ourselves no longer alone. The bats had suddenly swarmed into our bedroom, flying in a frenzy looking for that pig. Unable to see where they were going, they kept knocking into us instead. We shrieked and screamed like Rod Taylor and Tippy Heddren in Hitchcock’s The Birds, waving pillows and blankets to get them out of the room but we were outmatched and outnumbered.<br /> <br />Project Birthday Pig was not going to be easy. My husband is a good sport but asking for a whole pig, birthday or not, would be considered testing the limits. Even good eggs crack under pressure. <br /> <br />It’s not easy being a porcavore married to a vegetarian. When I told my mother that I was dating a vegetarian, she heard veterinarian. Years ago, frustrated with having to always cook two different meals for the both of us (and three when the children arrived) or calling restaurants in advance to find out the catch for the day and then having him ask me after the fact if the fish had scales, I totally lost it and yelled that if he truly loved me he would bite into a spare rib just once. He looked at me in the way only a husband can look at his wife when she has gone off the deep end and he no longer recognizes her. Of course, he never bit into the spare rib. I guess if I wanted proof of his love for me, I would have to find it elsewhere.<br /><br />“I want a pig for my birthday,” I announced while he and I were running errands.<br /><br />“Cooked or alive?” he asked. I looked at him in the way that only a wife can when she is contemplating making her children father-less. He was silent.<br /><br />“You don’t have to answer right away,” I continued. “Please think it over. If you decide that it’s too disgusting I will understand.” I lied of course and began planning for the pig just the same. <br /> <br />He said he would give it some thought which was a good sign. I had to see it as a good sign.<br /><br />In the meantime, I did my homework and found a Filipino restaurant in Queens that does lechon all the time. They told me I needed at least four days to place the order. I was also told that the pig would have to be cooked in advance which was probably best for all of Park Slope and most of all, my husband.<br /><br />Can you just see him looking out into our backyard and seeing this whole pig being cooked among our hydrangea and rose of sharon bushes? Or our dog growling and barking because she wanted something out there she knew she could never have? Or the squirrels. Let’s not forget the squirrels.<br /><br />When the restaurant told me that they didn’t deliver, I had to figure out a way for him to transport the pig. I didn’t want him to be stuck with a pig in his arms, its fat oozing and seeping through the box and trickling down his jacket. The image of him cradling a thirty pounder, while wickedly funny, was too much to bear even for someone like me. Good thing my friend Segundo was willing to be my husband’s wingman if and when the time came to get the pig. Like me, Segundo is a committed carnivore married to a committed vegetarian. He is also from Argentina so not only was he sympathetic to my cause but more importantly, he loves pigs. In Segundo’s arms, the pig would be safe. <br /><br />Every thing was in place but so far no word. The window for ordering the pig was getting smaller. I began to think about serving pigs in a blanket just in case the pig was a no-show. I know it wasn’t the same but I needed a back-up plan. Maybe I could find tofu pigs at the Food Coop or carve tofu cakes into piglets and deep-fry them. I began to feel guilty about asking for a pig. Perhaps it was time to read Leviticus after all.<br /><br />Was I selfish in insisting on a pig? Should I have asked for the Porsche instead even though the chances of my getting one was next to nothing? Should I have just stopped my age at 49? Gone to Canyon Ranch instead for a major beauty tune-up? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be content with turkey just like everyone else in America? Why should I aspire for an ocean-front cabana in Costa Rica when a Florida condo will do just as nicely? Perhaps, if I stared at the turkey long and hard enough it will begin to look, smell, and taste like pig. I began to pray to St. Anthony, the patron saint for lost causes. I was desperate for a pig miracle.<br /><br />The day of the deadline arrived. Some time at mid-day he announced simply, “Okay, let’s get your pig.” There was no quote from Leviticus, no tongs, no opera-length gloves, no nothing. He only asked that once the pig was in the house, that we tuck it in a corner, far from where he may have to see it, face to face. <br /> <br />“I’d rather not have to be in the same room as the pig the entire evening,” he asked. It’s one thing to see a pork chop on a plate, quite another to have the beast in full view, in the middle of the dining table. Very gently he also reminded me that not everyone will be as tickled or as excited as me to see a whole pig.<br />Oh the joy, the joy. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I was like a pig in the mud, snorting and squealing with glee.<br /><br />For the record, the pig was heavenly just as I always knew it would be. It was gorgeous, its skin the rich color of bronze, its texture all shiny and smooth, like a beauty queen on the night of her coronation. There was a serene quality to the pig’s face, its eyes closed as if in dying it knew that it was answering to a higher calling. The meat was so tender and buttery it slid down your throat without effort, no chewing was required. By the end of the evening, there was nothing left of the pig. Even the ears were gone.<br /><br />By the way, the pig didn’t come with an apple which was okay. I’ll make sure it’s there the next time, when I plan our wedding anniversary.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-24078670821869277502009-06-08T12:40:00.002-05:002009-06-08T12:46:24.240-05:00Gossip Shiksa Moms<span style="font-style:italic;">My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...<br /></span><br />When shiksa moms get together, like any kind of mom, we LOVE to gossip. Overheard at one such gathering was a random sampling of things that strike our curiousity and therefore gossip about. We like to know...<br /><br />Is he from the tribe,<br />Is she from the tribe,<br />Did he convert,<br />Will she,<br />Are they raising the kids Jewish,<br />Are they raising the kids with both,<br />How is it possible to do both,<br />Will she get a Sweet 16 party,<br />How big is the bat mitzvah,<br />Who’s the deejay,<br />Where’s the party,<br />How many people are coming,<br />Did she wear Betsey Johnson,<br />How do you keep kosher,<br />They come to my home for dinner but won't take my food into theirs because they're kosher,<br />For pork they come to my house,<br />Onions or shallots for latkes,<br />Mohel or hospital,<br />Can we have a tree,<br />Fresh or plastic,<br />Fir or spruce,<br />Truffle-fed pigs doesn’t make the pig kosher,<br />A pig will never be kosher,<br />Can we be buried together,<br />How do you feel about cremation,<br />I hate fasting,<br />I don’t know how you can fast,<br />What will happen to me when you’re in your family plot,<br />Can my ashes be sprinkled over you when my time comes, <br /><br />How did I get into this....Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-11963179892923099832009-05-22T09:22:00.000-05:002009-05-22T09:23:05.964-05:00Gossip MomsMy name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...<br /><br />Parents like to talk about their children. <br /><br />Moms love to gossip about theirs. <br /><br />We especially love to gossip about...<br /><br />how they’re doing in school,<br />their social life, <br />their clothes, <br />their friends, <br />their friends’ allowances<br />their friends’ curfew,<br />their friends’ parents,<br />their friends’ parents’ jobs<br />their friends’ parents’ homes<br />their friends’ parents’ vacation homes<br />their cars, <br />their favorite junk food,<br />their test scores,<br />their grades,<br />their teachers,<br />their crushes,<br />the 4 bases,<br />the best deodorant,<br />the best tampons,<br />the best house for smoking pot,<br />the best beer,<br />the worst beer,<br />the best way to get high,<br />the worst way to get high,<br />the coolest mom,<br />the coolest dad,<br />the most boring mom,<br />the most boring dad,<br />the worst mom,<br />the worst dad,<br />the worst child,<br />and of course, the best child.<br /><br />Usually mine. Always mine.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-15720738408506815572009-05-21T09:51:00.001-05:002009-05-21T09:53:58.237-05:00At Your Service. Not!My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...<br /><br />I was out sweeping the stoop, one of those annoying domestic rituals attached to the seasons. In the winter, I shovel; in the spring, summer, and fall, I sweep the stoop. It wouldn’t be such a big deal except that when the weather is warm, the pollen gets to me, thanks to a pin oak tree in front of my house. There is a nametag nailed to the trunk in case anyone was interested. My preference would have been for a warning sign instead: Danger! Danger! Tree sheds. Tree spreads pollen. Sometimes, the pollen is so bad I can barely open my eyes. There are days when I look like Rocky and that’s on a good day.<br /><br />But someone’s got to sweep and that someone is me.<br /><br />So I’m going about my business when I notice the caregiver of a neighbor, two doors down, smiling at me. Until today, we’ve done nothing more than exchange nods. The smile is a change from our routine. She starts to walk in my direction, pushing a stroller with baby Lucca in it. Well, he isn’t exactly a baby anymore but he is in the stroller.<br /><br />I smile back and go about my business when I begin to feel that I am being watched. In fact, the caregiver is now standing in front of my house. <br /><br />“How long have you worked here?”<br /><br />OMIGOODNESS! People, this is very grating to my delicate ears. I can feel the sweat oozing out of nipples.<br /><br />I understand it’s a case of mistaken identity but why couldn’t I possibly be the “owner” of the house instead of the cleaning lady? Given that I was wearing rubber gloves, an apron, and clogs covered in handpainted flowers, the mistake was unintentional if inevitable. But the gloves were made by Casabella and the clogs were from a Swedish catalogue called Hannah Anderson. In this instance, the details escaped her because what she saw instead was, like her, I was a person of color. In her mind, I couldn’t be anything other than....<br /> <br />But lady, I was wearing pearls! Huge, lustrous, South Sea pearls on my ear lobes. Perfect spheres the size of marbles. Anyone who knows pearls would know they weren’t from Carolee.<br /><br />And there’s the rub: she knew nothing about pearls. Sigh. Next time, I will wear a tag that says, “Owner.” Now, let’s see if she can read.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-26921985332423828742009-05-19T15:03:00.001-05:002009-05-19T15:03:45.811-05:00I MUST CONFESSMy name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...<br /><br />About two months ago, I decided to go to Confession after an absence of, oh I don’t know, so many years. I did not have anything particular to say or confess. I had not committed any mortal sin that would have warranted my presence in the Confessional. It’s true that my mind wasn’t exactly fallow for all that time, preoccupied as it was with all sorts of adulterous, murderous, gluttonous thoughts but they don’t count.<br /><br />I wish I could explain the impulse that possessed me to go but I can’t. Just did. <br /><br />I chose to go in the afternoon when I assumed there were would be fewer people. I like walking into an empty church and having this big, voluminous space all to one’s self. Including me, there were nine others waiting their turn.<br /><br />I felt awkward, nervous even. Like that nine-year old all over again kneeling before the sliding panel, waiting for it to open with a sharp noise, and seeing the silhouette of a man who could see me, all of me, but not the other way around. A man who usually came with a double chin and a voice that seemed to have risen from Hades. I remembered feeling trapped and claustrophobic, of not being able to escape, of being swallowed alive by my sins and this man.<br /><br />What was I doing here? <br /><br />I was up next. In the time it took me to walk over to the Confessional, I could have turned around just as quickly and left. But I’d gotten this far. I took a deep breath, pulled the door open...<br /><br />...and stepped into a brightly lit cubicle the size of an airplane stall. Inside were two chairs next to each other, and on one of them, sat my parish priest whose eyes popped out as soon as he saw me. He looked like he really wanted to fall off his seat but there was no room. So instead, we giggled and chuckled as he invited me to take my place next to him as if we were old friends enjoying a quick cup of tea, knee to knee.<br /><br />I know I was there for no more than ten minutes yet I could have stayed there forever. I wanted to keep on talking, saying every thing I had kept to myself all these years, no matter whether I made sense or not. Father M. sat there with his eyes closed, listening, nodding, smiling and not saying anything particular or meaningful in return.<br /><br />By the time I left, the line had gotten longer. And I still couldn’t remember what brought me there in the first place.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-18583784655293176392009-05-12T09:34:00.001-05:002009-05-12T09:36:52.627-05:00HELP: The Shiksa Dispenses AdviceMy name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...<br /><br />I received a call from a family friend asking for my help on an impending engagement between a couple who, as you might have guessed, stand on either side of the Cross. I was flattered but wasn’t sure I had anything to offer. <br /><br />“Please, maybe the bride-to-be can talk to you. You and Glenn have made your marriage work.” People assume that because Glenn and I have been together for years our marriage is without potholes which is a fallacy because in fact we have our fair share. Our marriage works because despite their presence, we have become adept at adapting to them or simply learned to ignore them. <br /><br />“Marla and Jake* have been living together for several years and have recently decided to make it official and get married. The problem is Jake’s grandfather. Oh, I forgot to mention that Jake is Jewish but he doesn’t come from an observant background and Marla is Catholic and still goes to Mass. The grandfather, an Orthodox Jew has threatened to disinherit Jake if he proceeds with the marriage. I told Marla that she should probably talk to you because you and Glenn have made your marriage work.”<br /><br />I never heard from Marla or from the family friend again after that call. Either the problem worked itself out, the grandfather dropped dead, Marla and Jake broke off the engagement, or Marla and Jake eloped and moved to Canada. I don’t know.<br /><br />Here’s what I DO know. Holding a relationship hostage, especially a relationship of this nature, is problematic for me. Had Marla called, I would have told her to simply lose the boyfriend. End of story. Who cares about the money or whatever 24-carat carrot grandpa chose to dangle over Jake’s head? The relationship between two people, especially two people contemplating marriage and a lifetime commitment, should not be confused for a business transaction. <br /><br />The fact that Jake even raised the subject with Marla was an indication that perhaps the marriage was already on precarious footing to begin with. He had apparently also suggested that she might consider converting which apparently she was open to since her mother was less likely to disinherit or renounce her. Which raises another problem because any conversion that is not sincere, i.e., based on a belief system, is not genuine.<br /><br />OMG! If Glenn had asked me to sign a Prenup or asked me to convert, I would have been out of there so quickly he wouldn’t have known what hit him. But not without knocking him out cold first.<br /><br />Frankly, if Jake had any gumption (okay, cojones!), he should have stood up to grandpa and while he was at it, flipped him the bird. Seriously. Which may have induced cardiac arrest in the old man but at least he got to stand up for Marla. If Jake couldn’t stand up for her now, what makes her think that he will stand up for her later on when they’re married and all the exits have been boarded up?<br /><br />I am relieved that I never got their call because clearly I wouldn’t have been of much help to them at all. <br /><br />*not their real namesSophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-65000015578923341782007-12-07T19:02:00.000-05:002007-12-07T19:04:02.772-05:00Double LifeMy name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...<br /><br />As I write this it is the fourth night of Hanukkah. Thus far I have made latkes out of 5 pounds of russet potatoes. Go ahead, tell me I used the wrong potato. Or I should add onions (frankly, I prefer shallots). And if you tell me to use Mott’s apple sauce one more time (of course I make them from scratch), I will throw the entire jar your way.<br /><br />I have to confess: if I touch or see another potato in the next 24 hours, I am going to start singing, “Silent Night”. You should see my hands and fingers, they are so dry from frying all those patties I look like I have eczema or worse, psoriasis. Quick, hand me the Eucerin or the Oscar for Outstanding Performance by a Shiksa in a....comedy.<br /><br />People make so much of the December Dilemma. That’s the term (must have been made-up by an atheist, agnostic, or Buddhist) conjured for the emotional and mental conflict interfaith families endure during this time of year. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a spike in therapy visits. <br /><br />All I can say is: been there, done that. I’ve moved on and made my peace. It hasn’t been easy, occasionally I slip and plummet into emotional depths I might as well be a spelunker, but eventually, you come up for fresh air.<br /><br />My dilemma has less to do with the spiritual than with the temporal: what is the best sauce for dipping latkes? Apple sauce is great but that’s if you don’t know any better. You should try vinegar mixed with minced garlic, sea salt, red pepper flakes and sliced onions. Or Thai sweet and sour sauce. Soy sauce works. And my all time favorite, fish sauce, freshly squeeze lime juice and fresh cilantro. As they say on tv, “Priceless!”<br /><br />Go ahead, have apple sauce. December dilemma? I’m dipping my latkes elsewhere.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-90925363099529475162007-10-18T11:35:00.000-05:002007-10-18T11:36:08.761-05:00How Do You Do It?How Do You Do It?<br /><br />My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila....<br /><br />I am often asked, How do you do it?<br /><br />You mean, how do I make chicken adobo? Easy...In a pot, throw in soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, black pepper, bay leaf, sea salt, chicken (or pork for the really hard core), stew until chicken is tender, serve.<br /><br />How do you do it?<br /><br />You mean, how do I keep my girlish figure? Easy...taebo two, three times a week, power walk around the park, pilates, eliminate all processed starch (not eating rice is a real bummer!), no soda, no chocolates unless it’s from Payard.<br /><br />How do you do it?<br /><br />You mean, how do I get my cut orchids to last so long? Easy...change the water every day and snip the bottoms of the stems. Not too much. Just so.<br /><br />How do you do it?<br /><br />You mean, how do I throw a party for fifty without using paper plates or plastic knives? Easy...you either buy enough china and flatware. Or there are rental places that will deliver and pick-up. You don’t even have to rinse them. It’s on the Internet.<br /><br />No, no, how do you, a Catholic, raise a Jewish family?<br /><br />Easy...you do it the Nike way: Just do it!Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-83764196896889277742007-10-02T11:26:00.000-05:002007-10-02T11:30:12.441-05:00I Don't Sound Like ThatMy name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila....<br /><br />When Glen and I got married and began having children, I wondered in what order (and how quickly) my kids would come to realize that one, the color of their parents’ skin was different from each other (I am brown, Glen is white): two, we came from different cultures; three, observed different religions; and four, spoke different languages though we spoke English at home. <br /><br />I was therefore unprepared (and surprised) to discover that of all the differences they could possibly find in our family structure, it was my accent that got a major share of their attention. Yes, my accent. Not my skin color, my belief system or that unlike their father who did not eat animal flesh, I ate every thing except road kill. Out went my prepared speeches on race, diversity and tolerance. In its place came explanations for why I spoke and sounded the way I did.<br /><br />You see I don’t sound like my children or any of their friends’ parents. Actually, I don’t sound like anyone in Brooklyn. I have lived in this country for more than twenty years yet I still sound like the person who lived in the Philippines. My Rs tumble around my tongue like tennis balls inside a dryer. Vowels stay as long as they want and every syllable is accounted for. My sentences are spoken in cadence, in tones that go up and down depending on how excited I get. I don’t speak through my nose or my ears. I yell at jaywalkers in my native tongue.<br /><br />And to my children and their ever-widening circle of friends, I sound funny. A curiosity if you will in my own home, to be mimicked and aped at will. Of course, I find none of this amusing.<br /><br />Back in Manila, one’s accent was a barometer of one’s station in life. The more American you sounded, the more educated, classier, and therefore, superior you were. A fine example of colonial mentality at work. The British accent did not count. That accent only made you sound pretentious--a try hard--as one unfortunate friend discovered after spending two months in the British Isles and came back sounding more British than the Queen. Why would anyone want a British accent? Didn’t they lose the empire? The poor woman never opened her mouth again. <br /><br />But what the natives back home don’t realize however is that there is no single accent in America, even if everyone speaks English. In the state of New York alone, a Staten Island accent should not be confused with a Long Island or Brooklyn one under pain of losing a limb. <br /><br />From the start, I made a conscious decision not to change my accent and sound like someone from...Brooklyn. For what? Just so I can have bragging rights to being Stateside? No thanks. But my children (and occasionally Glen) won’t leave my accent alone. It has made me more determined to sound Filipino; I find that my accent has even gotten thicker over time. Quite frankly, I’m rather proud of it. Of course, whenever my sense of humor and patience fails me, I fight back.<br /><br />“I don’t sound like that,” I yell at them in my language. They have no idea what I’m saying and that’s too bad.<br /><br />They stop.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-21327808536250960962007-06-19T07:07:00.000-05:002007-06-19T07:12:53.625-05:00I Just Can't WinMy name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...<br /><br />Just when I thought I had a place in this society, I was resoundingly put in my place to make sure I didn’t forget where I came from. It doesn’t matter by whose pronouncement it happened; it did.<br /><br />I was under the impression that by virtue of my marriage to Glen (my good Jewish egg of a husband), I--a gentile, a Catholic and every possible non-Jew name you can call me--was a shiksa. I knew, understood even, what the word meant. What its implications were. By embracing its usage, I thought I was removing its ability to hurt me. It is a slur after all in certain circles. Among Catholics, it would be called self-flagellation but that's okay. At least I'm using my own whip on myself, no one else's.<br /><br />Except that I don’t look the part. What did people expect? I am the girl from Manila, not Ipanema. Just when I thought I could have a say on how people viewed me by openly declaring myself a shiksa, it turns out that I cannot claim the name for my own. The name simply doesn’t fit. And if it doesn’t fit, presumably, you’ve got to quit.<br /><br />Ethnic. That’s what I am I was told. This I already know. I can see my reflection through the grimy windows of my home. Back where I came from, that's what we were called. It was also interchangeable with native, as in aboriginal, as in tribal. Pygmy was another one but deemed too harsh and inappropriate in polite society. Eventually, it was dropped from the lexicon of everyday vocabulary.<br /> <br />Okay so I’m not white. Not blonde either. I get that too. But just this once I wanted to hear something I didn’t already know. How hard could that be? Apparently, too hard.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-27214338300938593772007-03-08T13:11:00.000-05:002007-03-08T13:14:35.499-05:00The Hyphenated LifeMy name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila…<br /><br />A hyphen is a small bar that looks like a minus sign. The dictionary further describes the hyphen as a punctuation mark used to divide or connect two words; to describe a person who performs more than one function; to describe a unit of mixed or diverse backgrounds.<br /><br />To me the hyphen is all that. For something no bigger than a period, it means so much more. It describes the life I lead: a life that straddles two worlds, the tight rope that connects me to both, maintaining the delicate balancing act between the life I had before and the life I have now.<br /><br />At times the shiksa life can be confusing. It gets so confusing at times that I swear I can’t keep my life straight. It’s that neither here nor there feeling. Like that. Then it really gets more complicated when other people try and do it for me. With the best of intentions of course. People always have the best of intentions even when the outcome is bad. <br /><br />The other day I went into a Judaica store in search of a spice box. No, not for oregano, silly. For Havdallah at the end of Shabbat. Right now, all we use is an oval stainless steel tea strainer that looks like an egg with holes. You probably own one just like it. It’s the kind you’d buy at Broadway Panhandler or Crate and Barrel. The one we have preceded me so I wouldn’t be surprised if Glenn bought it at some JobLot before it went out of business. He can’t be bothered with details like that. <br /><br />I’m the exact opposite; I’m all about details. If you’re going to do something, do it right, or don’t bother. Glenn just rolls his eyes whenever I say things like that. It’s a quality of life issue for me; he starts tabulating how this will dent our household budget. A spice box? Yeah, right.<br /><br />Like I said, I walked into a Judaica store on Coney Island avenue. It’s not like I’ve never been to one before but this is the first one I went to by myself. It was a recent recommendation and I just happened to be in the neighborhood so I figure, why not? <br /><br />I go in and look around. No one looks up. No one comes near. This is good. I am left alone. I don’t like it when sales associates come too close and trail me around as if I didn’t know what I was doing. Honey, I may look like this but I know what I’m doing so leave me alone. But that’s not a nice thing to say and I don’t.<br /><br />I take my time going around. I’m not one of those grabbers who pounce on the first thing that catches their eyes. It needs to knock me off my feet for me to do that. I see some really nice Seder plates except that I already own one. There are several good-looking menorahs. We own three, in addition to the ones the kids made at their pre-school. I am happy just checking things out. It’s what I love to do whenever I go into a store. I get into my Zen, meditative mode and have a good time. There’s no rush. Something will pop at me and then I’ll know when it’s time to buy. Until then, I will just go from one display to another, floating in and out of space.<br /><br />Suddenly I feel like I am being followed. I turn and there just behind me is an elderly man. He says politely, “Excuse me, can I help you?” <br /><br />“Just looking,” I respond brightly. Then, “Actually, I’m looking for spice boxes. Where would they be?”<br /><br />He doesn’t answer immediately but just stands there looking at me. Sigh. I recognize this look. I get this all the time whenever I come to places like this. I should have come with Glenn; they’d never give him that look. But he never has time plus I wanted this to be a surprise. I could have invited my friend, Miriam. They wouldn’t dare give her that look. Plus she’d look right back at them.<br /><br />“You don’t look Jewish,” he says. I am not offended; he is right. Still.<br /><br />“I’m not,” I reply evenly. In my head I add, I know what I’m doing even if I look like this. It would have been unkind to actually say them. Nothing would change. Plus he wouldn’t get it. So we stand there face to face, the two of us unsteady on our feet. I shouldn’t have worn heels.<br /><br />He steps aside and with a slight bow, points to a certain direction. As I make my way he adds, “Well, you look like you know what you’re doing. Call me if I can help.”<br /><br />I may look like this but you bet I know what I’m doing. But I say no such thing because the old man saw me and knew.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-28442190943722278962007-02-22T10:45:00.000-05:002007-02-22T10:54:33.399-05:00X Marks the SpotMy name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila…..<br /><br />February 21 was Ash Wednesday and I dutifully went to church to do what I’ve always done for more than four decades—I had ashes placed on my forehead. It was nine in the morning and there was a relatively large crowd, mostly people about to go to work, making sure that they observed this Holy Day of Obligation before life got in the way. Frankly, it would have been just another Wednesday had Glenn not reminded me the night before, “Don’t forget your ashes.” He’s good in that way. He always makes sure that I do not miss or forget rituals and services. He could almost be my mother except that they stand on opposite sides of the Cross. Plus he has more hair than she does.<br /><br />Normally, when I get my ashes, I proceed with the rest of my day and think nothing of it. By the early afternoon and without any intervention on my part, the black mark begins to fade and what is left on my forehead is nothing more than a smidgen, like bad mascara that got smudged before it had a chance to dry. <br /><br />But this particular day was different: I found myself receiving more than my usual quota of stares in a way that left me feeling uncomfortable. The quality of the stare was particularly disconcerting as it didn’t begin in the way I was accustomed to: the sudden look in mid-stride by whatever it was that caught their eye and the moment of clarity that illuminated whatever it was that caught them by surprise. In most cases, it was over as quickly as it began. <br /><br />Not this one. It began with a pair of eyes carefully focusing on my face, not quite fixing on a point but searching for one just the same, unabashedly, then upon finding it, lingering, and lingering some more. Was my nose out of joint? Did I apply too much foundation on one side of my face? Were my eye bags sagging down to my knees? Were my roots showing and were they, heaven forbid, trying to estimate my true age? Then a polite acknowledgement of something I already knew. “It’s Ash Wednesday.”<br /><br />I almost let it pass until I caught my reflection in a mirror and was horrified to see how huge and black the mark was. A helicopter could have landed on my forehead, it was that big. In the past, the mark was nothing more than a smudge, like a Nike swoosh, pressed in a hurry because there were others on line and there were trains to catch. You couldn’t even tell it was a cross. But this one labeled me very clearly and there was nothing I could do. Because of it, I felt singled out. I didn’t like it. <br /><br />I don’t go around telling people my religious affiliation nor do I discuss the depth of that connection. I don’t talk about my rosary collection or the saints to whom I pray the Novena. My religion is a very private and personal matter and I prefer to keep it that way. It is not a topic of conversation at cocktails. People who know and understand this about me know when not to overstep their boundaries because when they do and some of them have, I go for the jugular.<br /><br />The ash on my forehead marked me in a way that didn't make me feel good or special. Instead, I felt exposed, marginalized and diminished. I found myself walking around with a heavy heart and an even heavier head sitting on my shoulders. Suddenly, my religion felt like a burden rather than a blessing. Seeing others like me, with their foreheads sullied by that big, ugly mark didn’t change that feeling. <br /><br /> And it wouldn’t come off.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-17582080477853567572007-02-16T14:13:00.000-05:002007-02-16T14:16:14.428-05:00What's In A Name?My name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila…..<br /><br />I was recenty googling my name to find out what exactly was an amapola. Turns out that amapola is a member of the hibiscus family, the hibiscus mutabilis to be exact, which is grown in rural areas of the Philippines for both its ornamental and medicinal value. The amapola grows as an erect, branched shrub or small tree 2-4 meters in height. Another entry for amapola, also on Google, says that it (now known by its Americanized name as poppy) is the state flower of California. That’s quite a leap from amapola to poppy but then again you could say the same of Governor Arnold.<br /><br />Definitions aside however, I wasn’t deliberately named after a flower although it would have been a nice gesture. Truth be told, my parents didn’t have the imagination or the patience to find a suitable name for me. They waited for seven days, unheard of in this day and age, caught in a naming stalemate, unable to agree on their choices, neither of them speaking to the other in case one spoke out of turn. I was literally called Baby Girl Batungbacal during those seven days. For non-speaking Tagalog readers, batungbacal is a contraction of two words, bato meaning stone and bacal meaning metal. Here I was, only seven days old and already the implications of my name weighed heavily upon my deformed cranium.<br /><br />The breakthrough moment happened during a visit by my grandmother who was gravely disturbed by the lack of a name for me, her first grandchild. “Anak ng amapola,” she screamed, blurting out amapola instead of some smelly, body part which was what people over there usually said when they were pissed. It was a class thing; women like her just never spoke with a foul mouth. And that’s how I got my name.<br /><br />By the time I was ready to get married, I was determined not only to marry a man whose name had fewer syllables than mine, I was also going to be prepared when the time came to name our child. Glenn and I eagerly bought every naming book we could find, acutely aware of the fact that since this child would be a cross-breed, it had to be a name that would feel and sound natural in both cultures. It was also important for me to hear how the name would roll off my tongue when I’m cooing or yelling at the child. It’s like naming a dog but without the emotional or college investment.<br /><br />Glenn and I also agreed not to share the process with other people but you know how friends and family are, especially family. They just won’t leave you alone. At a particularly memorable gathering—Passover I believe it was at my MIL’s (mother-in-law)--both our relatives suddenly decided to amuse themselves by shouting out possible names in the interregnum between the main meal and reading from the Haggadah. Orville! Cleopatra! AmyBeth! Charlton!<br /><br />This was all amusing if not somewhat irritating and I was praying for it to end. It did when someone (and I’m not going to say who) had a flash of inspiration and yelled, “Lucifer!”. End of story.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-49572563797921384542007-02-14T13:56:00.000-05:002007-02-14T14:02:51.278-05:00The Heart Smells SweetMy name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila…..<br /><br />It is Valentine’s Day and instead of being outside, enjoying the wintry chill as I contemplate an appropriate gift for the flip side of my heart, I am trapped indoors, watching the snow come down, hearing it pelt the skylights on the top floor of my house. The noise is a distraction and keeps me from thinking romantic thoughts. Instead, I keep wondering when the glass will shatter and bury me in shards of jagged glitter. I suppose there are less messy ways to exit this life. I hope that my face is recognizable when they finally find me.<br />I don’t look forward to snow the way most people do, including Glenn who pants for the next super aerodynamic sled that will bring him down faster than a Nike swoosh on the slopes of Prospect Park. Oh please. It’s just snow. In the Philippines, we don’t do snow. For me to be sitting inside wrapped in layers of silk, cashmere and wool when I should be splayed on a chaise sipping mojitos under the searing heat of the sun is enough to break my heart.<br />The truth is, I am guilt-ridden because I didn’t get anything for Glenn. Not for lack of time because I always have time. I can always make time. Not for lack of inspiration because there’s plenty of stuff out there to suit every budget, imagination, and taste. But that’s it: it’s all stuff. Just one more thing to display on a mantle, his desk, or his dresser. Just another item to add to the clutter. Another tchotchke to dust.<br />Who needs it when we have each other.<br />But I am a creature of habit, a fool for the marketing pressure of advertisers, and a stickler for ritual. I am also fiercely stubborn and don’t like to be told how or what to do. It makes my Filipino-fish sauce-infested blood boil when I think that unless I have something wrapped in red, this Valentine’s Day will be a major disappointment.<br />This shiksa is in a bind!<br />Rather than agonize over this dilemma, I do what I always do best when faced with a problem: I confront it.<br />I pick-up the phone and call Glenn.<br />“I’m sorry but I didn’t get you anything for Valentine’s Day.”<br />“Neither did I.”<br />“Oh.”<br />“Are you angry? Because I can if you really want me to.”<br />“Nah, it’s okay. It’s just Valentine’s Day.”<br />“And you are my Valentine.”<br />We hang-up after I manage to elicit a promise that he will at least try to come home early. Then I grab one of my Jo Malone bottles and spritz the nectarine blossom and honey scent all over his clothes. Glenn is mine after all and he better not forget it.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-18407729911369971502007-02-09T12:39:00.000-05:002007-02-09T10:40:18.247-05:00The Shiksa and Her Mother-In-Law's FriendsMy name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila….<br /><br />I don’t want to talk about my mother-in-law. I want to talk about her friends. Once a year, usually in the summer, my MIL hosts a barbecue out in Long Island where we jointly own a country house on the North Fork. The BBQ is for MIL’s former colleagues at Queens College where they were all professors at one time or another but have now since retired. It’s usually the same crowd, most of them in their 70s, endowed with varying degrees of physical health but still mentally agile and alert.<br />Having teachers under one roof is like being in elementary school all over again. They assume that anyone who isn’t in the business is an empty, hollow vessel begging to be filled. Conversation tends to be one-sided (mostly theirs) and they speak in a voice and language more appropriate for a 3-year old. No matter how bright or successful you think you are, you are reduced to nothing around them. Just when you think you’ve managed to be at your smartest best, they come back with a perfectly aimed zinger that hits right between the eyes.<br /> At these events, Glenn and I prefer to remain in the background, calling ourselves “the hired help”. My MIL is a delightful hostess but panics at the sight of a match which makes me wonder why she does this (and she does this every year) considering that the first rule of entertaining is at least knowing where the can opener is kept. <br /> We gamely don our aprons, quietly do our work, including the occasional appearance to serve more tortilla chips, fill up the wine glasses, or in Glenn’s case, oversee the grill. Sometimes he will find himself responding to a polite query, “How much longer before we serve?” We rarely socialize with the guests because, by tacit agreement, our place is behind the counter and not in front of it. Also, our instinct for self-preservation runs deeper than our need for social acceptance.<br />Occasionally however, escape is not possible and when that happens, it is best to simply accept the inevitable with grace, dignity and most of all, a sense of humor. Barring that, knowing where the nearest exit also helps.<br /> Which is how I find myself seated next to Martha on a particularly blustery afternoon when temperatures have dipped into the 60s, a highly unusual number for this time of year. The entire party is forced to move indoors and huddle by a crackling fire I had made just moments before. <br />Ever the good sport, Glenn remains outdoors making sure that the chicken doesn’t burn, bundled in a polar fleece vest that his mother had thoughtfully thrown over his shoulders just before she went in. I had offered to take his place at the grill but he knew what I was up to and refused. <br />Martha, who has been married to Robert for over 50 years, is of Irish extraction and rather proud of it. He, not her, used to be an English professor. Several years ago, he took early retirement to look after Emma who has always been fragile of health. She’s been through one bypass, cataract surgery on both eyes, and two mastectomies. She is also diabetic and at some point in the day will disappear into the bathroom to inject herself with insulin. Despite her frailties however, she and her husband have raised four children, each with families of their own.<br /> In all these years, Martha and I have probably exchanged no more than a total of five sentences--usually when one of us was going to and from the kitchen--about the kids and how quickly they were growing up. These exchanges were just enough for neither of us to consider the other rude.<br /> Despite her infirmities, Martha is a woman with boundless social energy, always ready with amusing anecdotes to share, and a honed sense of timing and delivery while she’s at it. Her manner is always dry, her voice a raspy monotone, her eyes neither laughing nor crying no matter how funny her tales are. She is at her funniest when sharing an embarrassing detail, usually about her husband who doesn’t seem to mind that he is usually the punchline for most of her stories. She once described in great detail her husband’s circumcision at the age of 60 to correct a blocked urethra. <br /> So when Martha suddenly turns to me to strike up a conversation, I think nothing of it. But then she begins to talk about the wedding anniversary preparations that her children are organizing for her and her husband. I am delighted to talk about a subject other than my children or the health travails of senior citizens, a favorite topic in this crowd. I offer my congratulations on her good fortune. <br /> And then she takes over. <br />“I am so relieved that all my children married their own kind. None of them married outside their faith. I think that would have been too much of a challenge. It may be okay for some but not for me.”<br /> As I sit there, still smiling because I don’t know what else to do with my face, I feel the warmth that usually comes with it turning cold. Their own kind has the burning sting of ice on my skin. Didn’t the cataract procedures correct her vision? Did she become color blind instead? Isn’t my MIL her friend? Glenn and I just happen to represent the kind of union that would be “challenging” for her. <br />But Martha is just warming up.<br /> “My only daughter has been divorced for a long time. She has single-handedly raised her only son who is now in his 20s. She has a nice, important job at a bank but I wish she’d get married. I want someone to take care of her.”<br /> “It looks like she hasn’t done too badly for herself,” I say politely referring to her daughter’s profession.<br /> This time Martha takes my hand and leans closer as if I was a confidante.<br /> “I want her to go and get herself hitched to a wealthy, Jewish man.”<br /> I am stunned. My MIL is nowhere to be found; Glenn is still manning the grill. Let those chickens burn! My MIL was widowed at 36 when her sons were 7 and 3, and despite her modest professor’s salary, was able to provide for her boys. This she did by herself, without ever the need for a man to take care of her, Jewish or non-Jewish. My MIL simply took care of things, herself.<br /> By the time I turn to Emma, she is gone from my side, talking to the others. I want to warn them to run for cover but they all seem to be having a good laugh. I leave and take my place behind the counter instead.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4473917326865598755.post-81499757636477813882007-02-07T12:22:00.000-05:002007-02-07T17:14:14.081-05:00The Good EggMy name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila. Twenty years ago I married Glenn Gold. A good egg. He’s the Jew. We have two kids and a dog. We live in Brooklyn, New York city. Glenn and I agreed to raise the kids Jewish; I continue to remain Catholic. Yup, I eat the wafer every Sunday; don’t drink before 5 unless I’m in a brasserie sipping mimosas. Glenn and the kids go to Shabbat services every Friday much to the chagrin of child Number One who thinks he has better things to do other than be at Temple for an hour and a half. Number Two is catching up with grumblings of her own but must come up with better excuses as Number One has preempted most of them. I have every confidence that, in time, she will.<br />By mutual agreement, Glenn and I decided to keep the dog unaffiliated. She’s so screwed-up, she’s beyond redemption. Of course, I could sneak over to the church two blocks from my house where I am friendly with the parish priest and have him sprinkle Holy Water on the puppy. I’d have to time it though so that it looks like we got caught in the rain. No one would ever know. Dogs don’t talk. They just bark. Come to think of it, I could have done the same with Numbers One and Two but Glenn would know. He always knows these things. Besides, children talk.<br />Before I married Glenn, I had no idea what a shiksa was or that there was a term for someone like me who married someone like him. I thought bride and groom were it. In the Philippines, practically every one would be considered a shiksa except for the sprinkling of Muslims clustered around south of the archipelago. I found out what a shiksa was on the day of my wedding, at the reception no less, when one of my mother-in-law’s friends called me that to my face. Since I didn’t know the meaning of the word (and she had a big, fat smile as wide as the JFK runway), she walked away with her face intact. Obviously, now I know better. <br />I don’t mind being called a shiksa. Really. People will call you whatever they want so you might as well get used to it. Frankly, it sounds sexy. I love the way your tongue elongates at the first syllable then drops suddenly when you utter the last. I feel like I am putting on lipstick whenever I say the word.<br />Besides, of the many words that can be used to call me, it is hardly the worst. Trafe. Born-Again. Un-kosher. Jewannabe. Maid. Words like that. Heard them all.<br />For the record, I didn’t mean to deliberately get myself a Jew. I did not lurk around corners and grab one out of synagogue. It was not my intention to contribute to the diminishing numbers of the Jewish people. Just happened that way. Asking a person’s religious affiliation is hardly dinner conversation, especially not on a first date and certainly not until you’ve had sex more than three times. <br />Glenn and I were introduced at a bar somewhere in SoHo if memory serves me right, long before Old Navy, Staples, and Dean and Deluca moved into the neighborhood. I thought he was funny and witty in a quirky, absurd way. Later on, I liked the way his lower lip curled around mine whenever we kissed.<br />Twenty years. Man, that’s some run. My parents weren’t even married that long. I know very few people my age who’ve been married that long. Can’t complain. Of course we have our moments, besides arguing over how much our American Express bill was this month. But after all these years of sleeping together, does it really matter?<br /> Here’s another definition for shiksa: a person who straddles two worlds while belonging to neither.Sophia Romerohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03768012539494785079noreply@blogger.com2