Minnesota Soup...

English was a second language for my Mother. She was more “at home” speaking Yiddish than English. So at times her pronunciation of words morphed into another word. Minestrone Soup became Minnesota Soup. It wasn’t a big deal since her three young ones were fluent in  “Clara-speak.” 

Minnesota soup was a special treat served up on extra dark wintry nights. It was Mom’s version of kosher comfort food. The main ingredient was a few packages of Manischewitz Minestrone soup mix. The other components were a “bisl” (Yiddish for “a little”) onion, potato, celery and maybe a carrot If there was one handy. To this mixture she would sprinkle the quartet of Central European spices - salt, pepper, paprika and garlic, all in  bland moderation. An added bonus might be a challah bread with gobs of greasy margarine slathered on the shiny slices. It was one of our favorite meals. 

Mom wasn’t a Jewish version of Julia Child. For every Minnesota Soup dinner there were too-many fish sticks and frozen Green Giant boil-in-a-bag creamed corn meals. We forgave her. We were scoring lots of attention, affection and hugs. That’s plenty of nourishment.

Lately I’ve been craving kosher comfort food. But first I had to find a supermarket with a kosher foods section. The Rabbi blessed items usually cover a distance one step wide. If I  drank too much coffee I would stride right by it. That’s where I’ll find the key ingredient to Minnesota Soup. Manischewitz Minestrone Soup Mix. It’s impossible to have one without the other. Fortunately, Snobsdale, AZ contains enough “Unfrozen Chosen” to warrant a kosher foods section at Safeway. 

Once I have the main ingredient, the rest comes easy. I’m not religious about following Mom’s exact recipe. I’ve taken a few liberties. There’s heaps more vegetables including (OY!) red peppers, green chili peppers, mushrooms and red chili powder in my blend. All the contents eventually end up in a Dutch Oven. Then I’ll let it all stew in its own juices for about eight hours. 

When it’s done I’ll pop an IPA and microwave a tortilla. The savory soup’s warmth comforts me. But what really makes me wag my invisible tail, is how I reconnect with my Mom.

I think about all the positive traits she passed onto me. Such as: 

Start all conversations with a smile.

If given the choice between a handshake or a hug, go for the hug.

Always offer food/drink or both to all who cross your doorway. (This includes plumbers and painters and other hardworking strangers). 

Pick up a book in your downtime. 

Be civil. Mind your manners. It’s OK to say you are sorry.

Draw back the curtains to allow the sun to shine in.

It’s better to be a nurturer than a schnorrer. (Yiddish for taker).

Lastly, she taught me how to make Minnesota Soup so I could remember her fondly.

Thanks Mom for making me a better person. 

Cheers!

Happy 2020 too.

Jeff 

Christmas. It’s not for everyone.

When I was five years young Bobby Aquino was my best friend. The Italian Catholic Aquino’s were also our next-door neighbors. After Thanksgiving, a pine tree would materialize in their living room.Soon thereafter ornamental baubles and glitter would sprout from its green branches. As the days went by I noticed more and more mysteriously wrapped boxes under the tree. 

I’ve always been a wonderer. So I asked Bobby.

“What’s up with the tree and all those boxes under it?” 

“Christmas is coming. Don’t you have a tree? Don’t you get Christmas presents?”

“Ahhh No...”

So I began a campaign of kvetching (Yiddish for nagging) to my father Sid. 

“Where’s my Christmas presents? Why don’t we have a tree in the house?”

Sid ignored me at first. BUT! I’m a persistent whiner. Eventually Sid had enough. He wanted peace restored in the Sambur household. He thrust a package into my skinny arms.

“Jeffy! We are Jewish! We don’t celebrate Christmas. It’s not our Holiday. This is a Hanukkah gift. Its a Jewish holiday. Understand? Now come. We will light the menorah. Your mother will fry up some potato latkes for us to eat. Later on, I’ll teach you how to play dreidel.” 

Years went by. I grew up. Somehow I managed to score a career as Northern Colorado’s only Jewish firefighter. Come Christmas time, things got awkward. 

“Jeff! What will you be doing on Christmas?”

 “I’ll try to score a shift of overtime. If not I’ll work a time trade for another day off in the summer.”

“Don’t you want to be off on Christmas?” 

“No, not really. It’s not a Jewish Holiday. It doesn’t have the same meaning to me as it does to you.” 

Sometimes I had to elaborate on this trivial factoid.

“You know there’s an Old Testament and a New Testament. Right? Well for the Jews, our story ends with the Old Testament.” 

To a few of my fellow firefighters, this was a revelation.

Maybe by now, some of you might be thinking I’m a devout Jew. I’m not. I stroll into a Temple about as often as I do a Church or Mosque. In other words, nearly never. The few times in my life I experienced anything close to religion, I was alone on a mountaintop, in a canyon or another wilderness type setting in between. 

This doesn’t mean I never got into the Holiday spirit. I did. I invented an offshoot of Seinfeld’s Festivus. I named the secular holiday Kwanhanumas. Kwanzaa, Hanukkah and Christmas. It was an instant Fort Collins, CO hit. We’d meet in a neighborhood bar the week following Thanksgiving. The invitation encouraged the participants to bring holiday knick knacks, whether it be a menorah, dreidel, Christmas tree ornament or stockings. Unfortunately, we never had anyone show up bearing Kwanzaa swag. Conversations were quite animated. There was no gift giving. There was no guilt giving either, unless the miscreant wasn’t buying a round of drinks or appetizers.  No one ever tried to convert anyone else. We told stories. We laughed a lot. At the end of our celebration of humanity, we hugged. 

Isn’t that what religion should be all about?

I now have a dream of resurrecting Kwanhanumas in my new hometown of Durango, CO. Until then, I’ll probably continue to lay low during the Holiday Season.

I hope all of my readers (including all those Russian, Polish and Ukrainian Trolls) had a joyous, safe and healthy Holiday Season regardless of how you celebrated it.

Happy 2020,

Jeff

Last photos: This is how I spent Christmas Eve. I did a fly by with Fluttering Wandering Butterflies. Two landed on me. I’ll accept that as a good omen for 2020. 

What would a John Muir...

Think?

I’ve been in the Sierra Nevada mountains of California for over a week. I wanted to spend a lot more time there in what Mr. Muir precisely called “The Range of Light.” As usual, his assessment is jaggedly correct. The Sierra Range is different. The area emits it’s own wavelength of light. It’s so unique, it could be the fourth primary color.  Even the cedars, ponderosa, and sugar pines exude a just shtupped glow. At times, the glare is so bright, it almost has me reaching for sunscreen. I love the Sierra Nevada of Eastern California.

I chose a great time to be here. The summer is on the wane. The National Park Service of Yosemite were shuttering the high country campgrounds and visitor centers. The somewhat burnt out employees seemed almost gleeful about the closure. One told me, “If you think it’s still crowded, you should have been here in August. It was nuts!” 

His job was heading west into Yosemite Valley. “There’s no off-season there anymore,” he sadly stated. 

I found the trails to be somewhat empty IF you got an early start. As usual upon my return the parking lots were full. I’d spot many unprepared visitors going in as I was coming out. I suppose it’s their way of seeing what this hiking stuff is all about. Most were carrying I-Phones though. 

In other areas, the roads were chockablock with “leaf peepers” photographing the yellows, oranges and reds of the going dormant aspen trees. The colors added to the  brightness of the scene. Fishermen and women were out in full force dipping their lines to land the last lunker of the season. The sun arrived late and disappeared early amid the canyon walls. The nights were long. I read a lot.

Mr Muir left behind a legacy of famous quotes. They aren’t as entertaining as Yogi Berra’s, but worthy just the same.

Here’s a few: 

“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity; and that mountain parks and reservations are useful not only as fountains of timber and irrigating rivers, but as fountains of life.”

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine into trees.”

People are taking Mr. Muir’s suggestions to task. When Mr Muir passed away in 1914, there were less than 100 million Americans. Now there’s 326 million. Mr. Muir hiked on game trails and old Native American routes. There were probably a few miners trails as well. Now the paths are often two-lane highway widths. There’s evidence of erosion. The campgrounds are devoid of underbrush. It’s all been trampled. The land is not healing from the onslaught of all these Nature Lovers. We are hurting the very place we all love. 

This would bring a tear to John’s eyes. Like me, he was a sensitive guy.

Enjoy the photos. The Sierra is a special place on Earth. My guess is that one day, we will require a permit just to drive into Yosemite National Park.

From Bishop, California 

Jeff