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SURVIVING THE PANDEMIC: “It was like watching a Hollywood movie in which Gregory Peck straightens everyone out, only it was in my own house, and it was my husband”
By
Published: Apr 17, 2020
Category:
Pandemic: Dispatches and Essentials
CAPTION: The Kaufelt family. Rob is the former owner of Murray’s Cheese. Nina is the author of the extremely useful Real Food: What to Eat and Why and other books. You get shot if you call kids “adorable,” so…the kids are Julian, Rose and Jacob.
REPORT: US ALERTED ISRAEL, NATO TO DISEASE OUTBREAK IN CHINA IN NOVEMBER
from the Times of Israel:
US intelligence agencies alerted Israel to the coronavirus outbreak in China already in November, Israeli television reported.
According to Channel 12 news, the US intelligence community became aware of the emerging disease in Wuhan in the second week of that month and drew up a classified document.
US intelligence informed the Trump administration, “which did not deem it of interest,” but the report said the Americans also decided to update two allies with the classified document: NATO and Israel, specifically the IDF.
Last week, ABC News reported that US intelligence officials were warning about the coronavirus in a report prepared in December by the American military’s National Center for Medical Intelligence.
As the President says, he “always” knew this was a pandemic. Thus, going forward, a friend suggests, we should discuss everything Trump did or didn’t do since January as… a coverup.
BOB DYLAN: JUST RELEASED
GUEST BUTLER: NINA KAUFELT
We had the best Seder ever. We gathered up ingredients: from Blue Jingler Farm we had a boneless leg of lamb and pastured eggs and chicken; we had garlic from the kitchen garden of Paul Steinbeiser, who runs a native plant nursery nearby; from the local supermarket, new potatoes; from deep storage at Greenmarket in New York City, there was fresh horseradish; and from the pantry, plenty of dark chocolate.
Rose and Jacob helped make the flourless chocolate cake. We whipped up six eggs to a golden froth, but the glass bowl slipped off the counter, and the eggs ran through the cracks in the kitchen floorboards. We started again. Earlier that morning, Julian had come running in with the only bitter herbs on the place for his scrambled eggs: garlic chives, which thrive on the warm, sunny corner of the herb garden. For the unleavened bread we found Brewer’s Crackers, made locally with spent beer grains, in the cupboard.
It was a simple meal: chicken soup without matzo balls or parsley; lamb without rosemary; potatoes with olive oil, salt, and pepper; flourless chocolate cake. Dayenu.
We clipped pink apple and red quince blossoms, and the children picked a huge bunch of daffodils for the glass bowl the farmers at London Farmers’ Market gave me as a parting gift. It is a beautiful, clear green, engraved with all the foods you find at the markets, from fish to meat pies to rhubarb. Rob and the kids set up the wooden rack for our wedding chuppah, which was embroidered by a local woman, and shows the five of us on a tree of life, with an animal and flower for each person, and a little stitched portrait of the house at Small Farm. It’s tied at the four corners with my sister’s ballet sash.
Freshly bathed and dressed, we sat down at the table, covered with lovely vintage table cloths we’d ironed together, lit by beeswax candles and by the sun, slanting in from the West. After a run-through of the prayers by video with the many and pleasant offspring of Rob’s late sister, we five were once more alone, as we have been for a month. We served the chicken soup, and I began to review the symbolism of the items on the Seder plate, one of my favorite moments. I asked everyone to wait to finish the soup before serving the lamb and potatoes. But someone went for seconds of chicken soup, and took potatoes from the stove. Someone made a smart remark about Passover.
My husband’s face turned dark. “Put the potatoes back!” he roared. “Listen to your mother!”
I was quietly satisfied and thought it might end there, so I resumed my tour: the horseradish represents the bitterness of slavery; the egg spring and rebirth; the charoset the mortar holding the bricks of the pyramids built by Jewish slaves for Pharaoh; the salt water, the tears and sweat of laborers and slaves and all who suffer.
Someone made another smart remark.
That was it. Rob pounded the table, making the cutlery jump. “You don’t have to be Jewish! You can be Muslim or Buddhist or Christian! I don’t care if you believe in God! You can marry anyone you want! But I will NOT have ignorance in my house! My grandfather came to this country, alone, as a boy, with his traditions, and we will keep them!”
No one made a peep. I thought I heard the baby chicks in the back mudroom peep, but then again, that might’ve been nerves.
“Come with me!” Now I was not sure what would happen. He led us all up the winding stairs to the oldest room in this 1750s house, where we have an old fashioned, large, roll-up map of the world, the kind you saw in 1950s schools. It was very dark up there, so I held a lamp up while he pointed and delivered a tour de force lecture about geography, empire, slavery, culture, Judaism, and diaspora. He touched on Europe (and its crusades), on Saudi Arabia (and T.E. Lawrence and MBS), on the Age of Exploration, on national liberation movements, on late capitalism.
It was like watching a Hollywood movie in which Gregory Peck straightens everyone out, only it was in my own house, and it was my husband. I was glowing. I was giving him the Nancy Reagan gaze. I felt ticklish all over.
The kids were a little sheepish (or perhaps lambish) as we trudged down the old stairs for the now room-temperature second course of lamb with boiled and smashed and roasted new potatoes. But they also stood a little taller, and felt a little pride. Because it’s good to know what is expected of you. When it was time to clear the savory dishes, they leapt to it, and they leapt to make the whipped cream and to serve the flourless chocolate cake, and when it was time to wash the dishes, they were swiping potatoes through the lamb fat, licking their chops.
It took me two hours to do the rest of the kitchen, but I didn’t care. It was the best Seder we’ve ever had. We only celebrate Pesach, a festival of freedom, when we are free. When we’re enslaved, there’s no time. And when we’re living in a plague, one that rages around us without — so far — touching us directly, I can count more than my usual blessings. I have family. I have health. I have life. Thank God.
FISHER ISLAND: ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE
Fisher Island is three miles off Miami Beach. No road or causeway connects to the island — you arrive by private boat, helicopter or ferry. If you’re not known on the island, you are likely to be observed by the private security team. The reason: As of 2015, Fisher Island had the highest per capita income in the United States. It helps that it’s tiny: 216 acres, 218 households and a total population of 467. The racial make-up is 92% white. Assume the rest is live-in domestic help. The initiation fee for the club: $250,000.
Go on… take a tour.
Why might this be of interest? Because every Fisher Island resident, health aide and housekeeper has had a virus test. Not a swab. A finger prick. And in a matter of minutes, each person knew the results.
From the Times:
The test will not tell someone with symptoms if they are sick. What the antibodies tests can do is track how many people might have been exposed to the virus, helpful information for academics, experts and policymakers. For residents, the tests can reveal that, even if they did not experience symptoms, they might have already had a brush with the virus.
Fisher Island paid for the tests that had been purchased by the University of Miami health clinic, Sissy DeMaria Koehne, a spokeswoman for the island, said in a statement. More than half of the residents are older than 60 and “at high risk,” the statement said. The 1,800 tests, made by BioMedomics Inc., cost $17 each, Ms. DeMaria Koehne said. She added that a Fisher Island resident has also now committed $200,000 to the Rabinowitz Charitable Foundation to provide blood-prick antibody testing “for hard hit areas in Miami.”
In 2015, before the “Trump boom,” the average income was $2.5 million. Just $200,000? On Fisher Island, that’s a rounding error.
Is there a better argument for taxing the rich? Or… a pirate movie?
MY TWITTER FEED
Jessica Winter: Today I described the appropriate tip for a delivery driver as “the wad of cash you bring to Connie Corleone’s wedding”
IF YOU ARE OLD, YOU MAY RECALL A 1950s TV SHOW, “THE MILLIONAIRE”
This morning, in SPAM: My name is MacKenzie Scott Bezos i am an American novelist and philanthropist, the former wife of Amazon founder Jeff Bezos.. I believe strongly in giving while living, My philosophy about life is that you should use your wealth to help people and I have decided to secretly give $7,500,000.00USD to randomly selected individuals worldwide, On receipt of this email, you should count yourself as the lucky individual, Your email address was chosen online while searching at random, Kindly get back to me at your earliest convenience time so i know your email address valid.
I thought of a show for our time: “The Billionaire,” with a female trillionaire giving away the money.
TO WATCH: “OLD HATS”
From the Times:
Buy yourself a pair of big, floppy shoes; absurdly baggy pants; and maybe a goofy-looking top hat for good measure, and watch the years melt away. That’s the firm impression anyone is likely to get from watching “Old Hats,” the ebullient new show from the veteran stage clowns Bill Irwin and David Shiner.
To watch, click here.
ESSENTIALS AND DISPATCHES
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