Liz was born to two Presbyterians living in Washington DC. After her birth, the Lawlers relocated to Europe for the better part of 14 years. Here, she discovered Jewish history in the usual way: a family vacation to Dachau. Her parents, reluctant to whitewash genocide, allowed their three young children full access to the facility's film offerings. They spent a difficult afternoon debriefing and soothing their brood, but still saw fit to take the kids to Anne Frank's house the following summer. Next year, they had the sense to go to Disney World, but the damage was done, and no one really cared about that anti semite Mickey Mouse.
Liz grew up and got a B.A. in French from Rice University and an MFA in Dramaturgy from Brooklyn College. Her interest in the humanities led her to become a yoga teacher (yes, there is a connection). And her interest in her future husband led her to become a Jew. Somehow this all distilled into an interest in parenthood. In 2008, she birthed a baby and is working on redefining herself for the fourth time in three years, working part time and mothering 24/7. Her interest and dedication to food and sustainablity are a natural outgrowth of her love for her family and her passion for yoga. She is temporarily side stepping The Kosher Question by cutting meat out of her diet. Her husband is concerned that this tentative vegetarianism might stick and he'll have to endure an endless series of botched tempeh experiments. He is of course free to make himself a sandwich. And though she is fully dedicated to this Jewish Carrot business, she is allergic to raw carrots. Her only allergy, oddly enough.
Liz Lawler's Website »
Jared Koch, author.
Like any good narcissist, I’m a sucker for a self help book. Particularly those sweet tongue-in-cheek manuals sitting near the counter at B&N. Those slim volumes seem to promise a schematic for your life: how to dress, date, survive a bear attack, and of course, eat. Clean Plates N.Y.C. fits the bill neatly. But unlike those “Survival Guides,” this is a self help book with a mission: to help its readers eat healthy and yummy meals in NYC.
The Faith Leaders for Environmental Justice. It’s an unwieldy name, but to the point. They are an interdenominational umbrella group of clerics andorganizations working at translating environmental consciousness into social justice. Based out of NY, and working mostly in and around the city, the group is co-chaired by NY Faith and Justice (a largely Christian organization) and We ACT for Environmental Justice, but includes a number of representatives from interfaith groups, including our very own Hazon. They host talks, run initiatives and are dedicated to improving the lives of those in lower income communities in the five boroughs. They take the wild and crazy position that these communities foot the bill for our collective enviro-sins. See? It’s not just about saving baby seals…
New York City is witnessing a surge in urban agrarianism.
These genteel concrete pastures have manifested a new crop of city farmers. This New Food movement has many mantras: “Local is the new organic,” “use the whole animal/fruit/vegetable,” also : “compost, compost, compost” (to the tune of “Marsha Marsha Marsha”). And finally, “forage.”
The last time someone suggested I go foraging for mushrooms, I woke up pantless and twitchy on a Mexican beach. Well, not really. My college years are something of a patchwork memory. I know the story had an undignified end. But here I found myself at the Brooklyn Food Conference, having an earnest discussion about the joys of foraging for mushrooms and greens.
The Undercover Vegetarian hummed softly to herself as she snipped and set aside the kohlrabi greens. They were to be roasted like kale and served up still crispy and warm. Humble Husband, skittish around root vegetables, eyed the proceedings warily. “Are those onions? Those look like onions. You know how I feel about those.” Shifting from one foot to the other, he seemed determined to underscore his discomfort, lest she think this experiment was welcome. The Celeriac Debacle of 2007 had left an indelible mark on the family, and the spirit of culinary adventure had been slow to return….
The task seems simple enough: compose a vegetarian Passover seder. At the risk of sounding dismissive, going the Sephardic route is relatively easy. When you have a wide variety of grains and beans at your disposal, how hard can it be to compose a healthy and (more importantly) tasty holiday meal? But putting together an Ashkenazi vegetarian seder is a test of one’s mettle. The exercise brings to mind the work of writers like George Perec, who wrote La disparition, an entire novel without the letter e. The constraint may seem arbitrary and tyrannical, but there it is, work with it.
[And we’ll leave aside question of vegan seders to the pros, way too complicated. See Cecily Marbach Oberstein’s post for some tips.]
I wish I had the nerve to be Lagusta Yearwood. Most days though, I perpetrate numerous small betrayals against my ideal self (calling myself “flexitarian” when I’m really too lazy to go full vegetarian; recycling only when it’s convenient; etc.). Perhaps I haven’t fully grown into the Radical Me. Or perhaps it’s the opposite: the Radical Me is like my skinny jeans, an identity that I’ve outgrown, as I’ve been fattened and jaded by age… (your thoughts? Have you radicalized or softened with time?).
So, “what’s a Lagusta?” you might ask. She is equal parts vegan chef, political activist and spunky feminist. Oh, and Jewish to boot. I conducted an email interview with her. My questions are in bold, her responses follow. Join us, below the jump.
It’s like a religious ritual: before each meal at my mother in law’s house, we act out the same scene. We all stand around the table, goggle eyed and groaning at the sight, and Laura worriedly hunches her shoulders and states, “I don’t think there will be enough food.” She’s right: the four different kinds of potato salad, chicken salad, breads and cheeses, stuffed peppers, roasted eggplant, smoked fishes and crisp greens (all of which is merely the first of several courses) might not actually feed a whole army. (I mean, that’s who she’s cooking for, right? No one has ever made this clear.) But close enough. And certainly, it will feed the variable number of people who routinely gather at her table.
As context: I come from a genteel middle class WASP family, where a full meal is composed of a protein, a starch, some veggies and possibly some bread. Dessert if you finish your salad without too much protest (but let’s be honest, WASPs really prefer a helping of self restraint with their coffee). So the overabundance of a Russian Jewish table has taken some adjustment. And it has led me to wonder: is this the whiplash effect of living under communism? And for a people so ardently, nationalistically Jewish, (my brother in law specifies that he is “traditional, not religious”) where on the table is the line between these two cultures? What made a table “Jewish” in Soviet Russia?
