Balebostes

"Baleboste" is a Yiddish word formed from the Hebrew words "baal" (master) and "bayit" (house), with a slavic ending and Yiddish pronunciation that pretty well disguise its etymology. Some people translate "baleboste" as "housewife," but that's not quite right. You've gotta imagine an insanely-efficient, multi-tasking, aggressively affectionate, occasionally nagging, highly prone to guilt-tripping JEWISH housewife. I'm not quite there yet.... Today was my first solo morning in my new pad and I had the matriarchs of my family in mind. After a glorious run on the beach, I washed some clothes old-school style in my terrific laundry sink and made a delicious breakfast

of melon, veggies and--you guessed it--bread with zaatar (and "gvina levana," white cheese, which is sort of halfway between yogurt and cream cheese. I can't understand why this delightful schmear is nowhere to be found in North America).

Cleaning up provided several lovely reminders of both my grandmothers, Grandma Pearl (my mom's mom), whose Yahrzeit candle is still burning bright, and Savta Fanny (my dad's mom), whose electric kettle and glass dishes have found a new home in my cozy Tel Aviv flat.

And of course I'm still thinking of my own industrious Baleboste of a mother, who tirelessly shopped, scrubbed, washed, folded and organized with me yesterday to help me settle in. Thanks, Ima.

The apartment is, as my Savta would say, "sehr gemütlich," very homey and cozy, and I'm so glad I live on a relatively quiet street so that I can work from home.

My landlady seems nice enough, except for the fact that she tried to scam me on the internet (which I won't elaborate on) and neglected to fix the cooktop, as she promised to do, which is perched precariously on a pile of spare tiles (she didn't seem to think this is unusual). According to her mystical calculations, however, Sunday was an ideal day to move in, so all will be well. I actually love the fact that she's into Kabbalah because she left behind all 23 volumes of the Zohar to "watch over me" (her words, not mine). Of course, I think the closest I'll come to studying Kabbalah in this apartment will be listening to Madonna MP3s.

I still have a fair amount of neighborhood research to do. High up on the list of priorities is a butcher (for schnitzel and meatballs, which is about all I'll be making on my little cooktop!) and a green grocer (Jamil on Dizengoff and Ben Gurion was very nice, but a friendly welcome doesn't really make up for overripe plums, don't you agree?).

Yesterday I went to Tel Aviv University to meet with someone at the Goldreich Institute for Yiddish. (If the fact that a Yiddish department exists in Israel and is run by a Berlin-born Jew isn't a sign of progress, I don't know what is.) I was welcomed very warmly and had the opportunity to sit in on a class on Yiddish literature in America, but is of course conducted in Hebrew (again, I think this all screams brave new world!). I struggled to follow the Hebrew translation of Sholem Aleichem's "Mottel the Cantor's Son" but had no trouble understanding the lecture...a good challenge anyway.