The shortest route from Kansas City to Memphis is via Springfield, MO and rural Arkansas where highway is controlled by the roaming gangs of deer who stand around the road contemplating if they will let you live. I wouldn’t recommend driving there in the dark.
I didn’t want to go to Memphis. Even though I learned English trying to sing along with Elvis (and that’s why people often ask me if I am from Tupelo), I didn’t feel the need to visit his house and other Memphis attractions didn’t really seem worthy of a fairly boring 8-hour drive. Usually we try to see things along the way, but there wasn’t much to see and the only memorable item was a town called Cabool, mostly because of how out-of-place the name seemed somewhere in rural Missouri.
Memphis turned out to be a fun place for a weekend trip, with enough things to keep you busy for a few days.
The mid-1970’s, when 7-year-old me was roaming the mean streets of Odessa, was a great time to live there. Odessa’s Jewish population somewhat recovered from the devastation of the World War II and the pogroms and devastations before that and, while the Soviet Government had a firm grip on the emigration spigot, prospered as much as was allowed. Jewish actors, teachers, musicians, artists, restaurant singers, underground business owners, doctors, tailors, professors – Odessa’s Jewish population was having another one of its golden ages. Maybe I should say “Odessa’s adult Jewish population” because many kids like me didn’t know we were Jewish.
Recently I ran across a website where Jews of my generation were describing how they discovered that they belonged to the Tribe. Not one of them found out from their parents. It was always a neighbor or neighbor’s kids, some lady at the store, an angry classmate, an opponent in a fistfight, someone throwing an insult or a backhanded compliment; Jewish kids were last to know about the most important thing in their lives. And then I understood why we don’t always see eye-to-eye with the American Jews, the ones carried to a Rabbi on the 7th day to have parts of them snipped, and taught how to participate in the great world Jewish conspiracy from their early days. Unlike them, we made it to adulthood intact, without ever seeing a Rabbi or even knowing the word Rabbi, or anything about being Jewish or the conspiracy we were born to participate in. While they were able to proudly announce their Jewishness in more languages than one, our nationality was conveyed in a series of winks and tongue-clicks with an understanding look and a sad face.
Around that time every resident of Odessa worth his eggplant caviar recipe had to have an underground recording of so-called Odessa songs. These were the songs usually performed in restaurants or weddings, sometimes funny, sometimes stupid, but always entertaining and good for dancing. Some of those included faux Yiddish lyrics and even when the original Yiddish had some meaning they were copied from musician to musician so many times that they lost all or most of it in the process. My household of course had a tape like this and I played it enough times to remember all the words in Russian and Yiddish. Except I didn’t know it was Yiddish, just like I had no idea I was a Jew and many other things a 7-year old not supposed to know. I also didn’t know I couldn’t sing.
I am at the center with my usual facial expression. Girl whose father was a part of the panel of celebrity judges is on the left wearing glasses. Odessa, 1976
That didn’t prevent me from volunteering to perform in a school concert. The casting committee consisted of my first grade teacher with the last name Rosenberg* and the father of my classmate with the last name Schneider*. I went on to perform a hit “Rahilya, May You Croak, I Like You”.
It went something like this:
Rahilya, may you croak, I like you.
I can’t live without you, Rahilya! Rahilya, we’ll get married, you’ll plump up
And we will live on the beach together.
And then the Yiddish part started. I dutifully repeated every word with an exceptionally joyful intonation, perfect projection and a smile on my face. At that moment I was Pesachke Burtstein reincarnated if I only knew who he was.
Afn boydem bakt zikh knishes,
They are making knishes in the attic
Funem tukhes shit zikh mel.
And flour is pouring out of the ass
Az der tote trent di mome,
When Papa is banging Mama
Kinder makhn zikh aleyn.
Kids are playing alone.
Rahilya, you are beautiful like Venus,
But you will grow a large belly
And if not, let the cholera take me
But let it take you first!
Rahilya, we will go to Yessen-tukhes**,
Where sun comes up between the blue mountains,
And if not, kish mir in tukhes***
But my patience has run out.
Tears filled my teacher’s eyes and streamed down her face. My classmate’s father, a gentlemen in what then seemed like his 70’s but probably in his 40’s, was shaking and crying like a baby. We didn’t have Kleenex then so they wiped their faces with newspapers and rags. I finished with an especially well-done kinder makhn zikh aleyn and triumphantly looked over my teary-eyed audience of two.
This is the original song I was performing that day from the infamous tape.
httpvh://youtu.be/n8j1_ksW61M
My parents were friends with my teacher, so she just called them that night and asked them to try and contain my singing talents at home.
My Mom still reminds me about this every once in a while.
I never found out why I wasn’t featured in the school concert.
I still remember the words to this and other songs from that tape but nowadays my only audience is the shower curtain.
I don’t remember how I found out I was Jewish but I don’t think it was from my parents.
And that’s how I was a Yiddish singer.
*Unmistakably Jewish names
**Play on word combination Yessentuki, a famous Soviet resort, and a Yiddish word tukhes (ass).
***Kiss my ass (yeah, I know lots of ass-words in this song)
Big thanks to my friend Yelena S. for her Yiddish expertise in preparation of this post.
I haven’t done a recipe for some time so here is an easy one for the roasted bell peppers with garlic.
Sweet bell peppers are delicious and good for you, but most of the time they are not cheap. You can usually find them at the grocery store in three colors – yellow, red and orange (green is not sweet and doesn’t work in this recipe) but they almost never cost lest than $1 a piece. That’s why I usually buy them at the City Market where they are sold anywhere from 2 to 4 for a dollar. Today I got 8 peppers for 2 bucks. Pick the peppers that are not wrinkled without discolorations and soft spots. There is a reason why they are cheap so make sure to inspect them before paying. Anyone knows that a soft and wrinkly pepper is no good.
Wash your peppers and remove soft spots. Place in a 375F oven on a foil-lined sheet.
After a few minutes roasting pepper aroma will fill your house. Every 10-15 minutes turn peppers 1/4 turn. You will notice the pepper skin starting to look burned in places. Don’t worry, skin peels off anyway and that’s the way it’s supposed to look like.
The peppers will eventually lose their shape and will turn brown on all sides. Some amount of liquid is normal. 45-50 minutes should be plenty, after that the peppers may start drying out.
Let the peppers cool down, then remove the skin, seeds and separate peppers into medium-sized strips and pieces. Occasional seed or a piece of skin is perfectly normal.
Discard the rest.
In the meantime, peel some garlic and round up some oil, vinegar and salt. Do not use olive oil or fancy vinegar, olive oil solidifies in the fridge; any corn or vegetable oil will do. The amount of garlic, salt and vinegar depends on you. I did go slightly overboard with garlic but you can’t ever have too much.
Press the garlic and mix with oil, salt and vinegar. You should have about 4-8 tablespoons of the mixture. Just mix it wit peppers and adjust to taste. Store in the fridge. Warning: If there is any chance of you making out (with a person), this will definitely ruin it, unless your partner eats the peppers too. Not recommended for work lunches or when you are around other people and pets.
These photos are interesting to me because my Father was going through the medical school about the same time (1963) and some of the situations are similar to what I have in our own photo albums.
I think I am the only one who finds these things interesting, but since I wasted all the time extracting and uploading all the old caricatures, you get to look at more of them.
If for some reason you want to see more, please don’t hesitate to click on my previous posts.
The following set of caricatures from the Soviet satirical magazine Krokodil is indicative of the treatment of the Vietnam War in the Soviet press. While stepping up the propaganda war, the Soviet Union was quietly shipping ammunition and advisers to Vietnam. During my army years, I served with a guy who was one of the Soviet military advisers in Vietnam; according to him, they were forbidden from displaying any kind of Soviet insignia, didn’t wear the uniform and pretended to be either some kind of sports trainers or construction workers.
