In my mind, living in Eretz Yisrael meant roughing it.
Our stay in Eretz Yisrael was supposed to be temporary. Three years maximum. And when we first came, boy did we live like we were only here for a short while.
Our apartment was unfurnished, and it took us time to get our bearings, which meant we slept on borrowed mattresses on the floor; we used a borrowed electric burner instead of a stove for longer than I care to remember; and one particularly memorable evening, we used the garbage can as a table.
In my mind, living in Eretz Yisrael meant roughing it. So for six months what could’ve been a quick meal of pita pizza or baked ziti became a laborious ordeal that entailed taking my little cheese grater and trying to eke out enough cheese by hand. I’ve never understood the allure of hand-grated potato kugel, and I most assuredly did not see the merits of hand-grated cheese topping my pita pizza, except that I could say I’d really spent time on supper.
When we returned to the States for Pesach after an interminably long six months, I was shocked to hear a friend of mine, a real-deal Lakewood kollel wife, mentioning that she keeps convenience foods like hot dogs and French fries in her freezer for busy days. Suddenly, my Israeli-pioneer resolutions came crashing down. If she can splurge on convenience foods, I thought, I can buy grated cheese!
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