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Like an ancient Egyptian garden By Miri Hanoch and Eyal Shani Tags: Israel, Cooking "So, I bet he cooks for you," people say to me sometimes, as if trying to make me do some kind of soul searching. But even though, as everyone knows, I have a private chef, most of the time I'm the one who does the cooking at home. He cooks late at night, when he feels like it, or when guests come and expect to taste something he's made, and only if there's wine. If there's no wine, then he can't quite comprehend why he ought to be cooking. In the absence of complete party supplies, he'll take a couple of cardboard-like Swedish crackers, spread some cheese on them, bring us a hot green pepper and call it a meal. And if he's really going all out, he'll cut up a tomato and open a tin of sardines that he waves in front of me as if I were a cat. "You're basically a housewife," the middle child summed up my station in life, as she helped herself to some quinoa from the pot and some tahini from the bowl, plunking down a nice artichoke in a deep dish. "Any adult who lives and works at home is a house-husband or housewife," I answered politically correctly. Not that I care. I'm one of those people that in third grade really identified with that poem about the true heroes being the heroes of routine. Schnitzel never gets any applause. No one ever talks about it. Advertisement And after the frying, the fight for justice begins: to ensure that there is enough schnitzel left for everyone. The first ones are snatched up immediately, but then I start hiding the rest on covered plates for the chef, for the eldest - because if she finds none left for her, she'll fry me without the benefit of breadcrumbs - and for the little one, who eats nothing but pasta, pizza, plain omelets and schnitzel. For her, this is a relatively exciting dinner compared to the usual omelet with a little mound of cottage cheese next to it, and the requisite cucumber sliced down the middle. This routine leads to the commonly heard question around our house: "Whose schnitzel is this?" This leads both the chef and I to reach the same conclusion, albeit from different directions - that every food has a specific address. On the day before Holocaust Remembrance Day, I found a torn photo on the red sofa, at the bottom of what was once, before Alfred the cat's claws got to it, the cork bulletin board where we displayed pictures. In the photo was our dearly departed cat Mahmet, gazing at me with yellow, wise and appropriately sinister eyes. This was the last picture that survived on the board, and at last Alfred managed to yank it off, too, and to make off with two new thumbtacks. The new cat's struggle against his predecessor's legend. In this case, he has very big paws to fill. The chef passed by and picked up the picture of Mahmet and stuck it back on the board, while he hissed at Alfred: "Just you wait. You'll see. She'll come out of the grave just to show you not to mess with her picture anymore ..." This charged family moment was interrupted by a sheet of notebook paper with this message in the handwriting of the eldest, who's currently producing a movie for her cinema program in high school: "Mom, don't forget that at 11, Sheli, the mother of Guy the director, is coming over to pick up the food (pasta for 20 kids + chopped vegetables). Thanks a lot! Me ..." The home provides plenty of opportunities for occupational therapy: What could be better for a second- generation daughter than preparing pasta for 20 teens who are filming a movie at school for Holocaust Remembrance Day? I made an amount of pasta that could fit in a bathtub big enough to easily hold a pair of twins. The chef came into the kitchen right at this moment and stared in horror at the huge mound of pasta with which every possible culinary mistake had been made: The pasta wasn't from durum wheat, the tomatoes weren't from the Arava, pasta should never be cooked an hour and a half before it's to be consumed, and it especially doesn't like to be moved from place to place. "You might as well buy them some grated Parmesan," he said in despair. "Does this look like it's enough for 20 people?" I asked him once he'd recovered somewhat. "There's enough for 50 people here," he answered, and helped me to drag the whole thing down the steps and place it in the director's mother's car. In the afternoon, I was suddenly hit with the kind of fatigue that makes you feel like you just can't go on without hitting the hay for the next two hours. I heard the key in the door and the loose tile wiggling, and then the chef came in quietly and took grapes and peaches and cherries and raspberries out of a bag. An hour later he served me, in a cream-colored, floral-patterned china dish, a bed of fruit surrounded by a translucent red liquid, like an ancient Egyptian garden. Right after the first bite I was as refreshed as if I'd just returned from a month-long holiday in Crete, and happily asked him: "So, what do you call this - fruit-salad soup?" He gave me a look of affection mixed with pity in light of my limitations in certain areas, and said: "No, sweetie. It's fruit salad enveloped in fruit consomme." The choice of fruit here is random, depending on what you find that day in the market. Any combination of first summer fruit is good; the quantities will doubtless reflect the high prices during this early part of the season. As long as all the colors of the summer varieties are there, and a balance is maintained between sweet and sour fruit, it will work. The apple is the exception; it is a winter fruit made multi-seasonal by the wonders of refrigeration. Its depth of flavor and the pectin in its seeds are crucial for the consomme. It's not a good idea to use cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, anise or other spices that will overpower the summer joy of the fruit. The folowing recipe is for 6-8 servings. 1 kiwi 2 white peaches 1 yellow peach 2 apricots 100 gr. papaya 100 gr. melon 1 small bunch green grapes 1 small bunch dark grapes 100 gr. cherries 6 strawberries 1 handful of black raspberries or blackberries 1 green apple peel of 1/4 fresh lemon 1 stalk mint 1 stalk fresh verbena (luisa) 1 handful edible geranium leaves (optional, may be obtained at nurseries) 1 handful edible geranium flowers (optional) 1 small hot shata pepper 10 whole black peppercorns 2-3 cups white wine white sugar Like any rich consomme, this one also needs "bones" - in this case, the pits and peels of the fruit. They give the consomme a deep "woodsy" flavor, the way a wooden barrel lends something to the taste of wine. Use a heavy skillet or pot. Cut up the fruit as if for a salad, leaving the cherries and the raspberries whole. Put everything together in the pot, except the wine and sugar, but including the pits. Pour in enough wine to cover the fruit and add sugar in a ratio of 4 tsp. sugar per cup of wine. Turn the flame up high, bring to a quick boil. A brownish-gray foam will appear on top. Skim this off. Keep the heat high. The bubbles will be large and as the alcohol in the wine evaporates, the liquid is reduced. Cook for about 15 minutes and then turn off the flame. Let the fruit sit in the stock for about 30 minutes to let the flavors deepen. Now strain the stock through a colander into a bowl, using a wooden spoon to press the fruit against the sides of the colander, liberating their blood-red juices. Cover the bowl and put in the freezer for 30 minutes. Use the same fruit and leaves as in the consomme - in the same quantities. But leave out the apple, the black pepper and the verbena. Add one "shaving" of lemon peel, cut in thin strips. Take a cutting board and a sharp knife, and slice each piece of fruit into large but easy to eat pieces. Gently gather up all the cut fruit in your hands and then hold it over a serving dish. Open your hands and let the fruit fall and arrange itself randomly. Scatter over the geranium flowers, the mint leaves and more strips of lemon peel. Pour the chilled red consomme around the edges of the salad to create a shallow puddle. Sprinkle a little powdered sugar over everything and eat as soon as possible before the primal flavor of the sliced fruit starts to wear off. Bookmark to del.icio.us   Grass is greener For the cannabis-growing residents of Lebanon, recent fighting has been a blessing. Piggy bank savings Welfare Minister Herzog unveils a plan to open savings accounts for every Israeli child.

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