“Chicken Pojarski: Once a favorite of the Russian royal family, and said to be named after the innkeeper who invented it.” I bet that innkeeper was a Jew-know-what.

“Saltimbocca of salmon: Slices of salmon are marinated in olive oil and herbs, wrapped around succulent smoked salmon, and cooked in beautiful, toothsome bundles.” Hmm, toothsome bundles. Isn’t that just so poetically relaxing?

This is from a non-Jewish cookbook that I picked up at a garage sale. It’s still hands-down my favorite book, particularly this entry: “Marinate the tuna steaks as you walk in from work, so they’ll be ready for dinner after you’ve relaxed with a bath and a glass of wine.” Hmm. What a deliciously practical tip for a hardworking frum mother.

The truth is that cookbooks are often my reading material of choice when frum novels become too taxing to read. By “too taxing” I mean that they always, always feature a frum mother in the kitchen, which is not relaxing to read about. Or saying Tehillim with fervor while she weeps for a missing child/hero out on a mission/husband being chased by a Nazi-Arab-mafioso. Which is absolutely not relaxing; I worry enough about my own kids, thank you very much, without getting caught up in a fictional character’s worry over her fictional brood.

Once, I was sitting in a doctor’s office, and there was a non-Jewish murder mystery on the table. I picked it up and began to read it while I waited. It was wonderful. The mystery was set in Japan (no relation to my life!) and every page contained some crazy scene of violence carried out by evil Japanese gangsters with names like Dandelion or Trampoline (I assume some things got lost in translation). I didn’t have to think about my kitchen once during that half hour. It was so relaxing that I had nearly dozed off by the time the doctor called my name.

So I’m good with cookbooks, and any kitchen-free fiction. But my skill at vetting reading material has recently been put to new use. Along with my kitchen avoidance, I’ve developed an Israeli-news avoidance.

I know, I know, one must be informed at all times (yes, Grandma!). But I’m tired of the news and am actively avoiding it the same way I’m avoiding my cooking. Listen, when there’s a siren, we hear it. I know what to do: Keep the safe room stocked with Bamba and a pail and water in case all the crates of Bamba get finished in one sitting. I know what to do: I run into the mamad, dragging every child in the vicinity with me, and fail to get reception when I realize that said children are not all mine and their mothers must be wondering where they are.

Then I begin wondering where my children are, assume some kindly neighbor dragged them into her safe room, and begin muttering Tehillim to myself, like a pious mother of frum-novel fame. I also dole out Bamba. My kids say, “Tehillim neged tilim!” but I say that (as well as Tehillim), Bamba is our secret weapon. No one except an Israeli could digest a ton of it in one sitting. Iran, be terrified, here comes a Bamba-fortified nation riding on bimbas to combat your bombas.

Hmm. Maybe war has made me crazy. Maybe I should stop being kitchen-avoidant and cook those defrosted chickens pooling liquid on my counters. Especially as both my neighbor and sister-in-law begin to go into labor with every new siren, so I’ll probably be feeding, um, X amount of kids over an indeterminate amount of time.

There’s an equation for that:

X = Siren = anxiety + babies born + hysterical kids holed up in other people’s mamadim x Bamba squared = more Bamba needed.

Conclusion: X = never mind those chickens, just go stock up on the Bamba (and don’t forget the Tehillim, good frum mommy that you secretly are).

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 920)