I know what you're thinking. "Wouldn't it be really cute if Jodi loved to cook, and she showed us step-by-step instructions on how to make this, that, or the other thing? If she wrapped a vintage cherry-print apron around her slender, wasp-like waist, and invited us into her warm, homey kitchen, strapped us into a vinyl-seated high chair, and let us watch, wide-eyed and breathless, as she cradled a milk-glass mixing bowl in her left arm while mixing vigorously with her right, whipping up something 'from scratch', all the while breezily humming 'Paper Moon'?"

Well, quit thinking that. It's not going to happen. While I have been known, on occasion, to indulge your dreams of me as your personal domestic darling, by preparing the best scrambled tofu this side of the Mason-Dixon line, some of the best soups ever to pass your trembling lips, and even a remarkable risotto to beat the band, these occasions are relatively far and few between and not one of them would be suitable for anyone to witness up close 'n' personal. Because, you see, I am not one who revels in cooking. I take no pleasure in it whatsoever. I approach even the simplest of preparations with an enormous amount of dread. If anyone had ever witnessed me in the throes of cooking, he or she would be able to tell you that I have been known to shout, "Come ON already!" if something takes more than ten minutes to prepare. Alas, no one has ever witnessed it, so you will just have to trust me. And trust me, it is not pretty. I know this comes as a shock, because you envision me doing everything prettily, in high heels and with every hair in place. I apologize for shattering that delusion.

So, anyway, I was sick the other night. Sick in a way that was also not pretty. Not the "cute" kind of sick where I sniffle and look about eight years old as I lie on my sofa under three blankets, whimpering occasionally for sympathetic effect, as I watch "What Not To Wear". No, this was the kind of sick that made me a little too familiar with my bathroom and its fixtures, and a daring glance into the bathroom mirror revealed that in five minutes, I had aged 50 years. The sofa took one look at me and said, "Ain't no way you gettin' nowhere near me, girl." (Oh yes it DID.)

I ate nothing that night, and the next day, although still rather queasy, I heard my mother's voice inside my head (I've had a chip implanted) saying, "You should really try to eat something." But what? This is New York City, and food is not easy to come by! So I had to rustle through my vast pantry of dry goods for something that would meet my requirements: (1) it couldn't have too much of a smell; and (2) it couldn't take more than two minutes to prepare. And what did I find? This:

I must confess that I have never, in all my years of being a Jew, made matzo balls. Yes, I have witnessed their preparation many times, and yes, I have eaten them just as many times (because, really, it is impossible to watch them being made without following up the event with an eating episode). But no, I have never actually made them. So now was the time. I was feeling adventurous. I figured I had what it took to mix up a little oil and egg (okay, egg replacer, since I'm vegan-ish) and smush it into matzo ball mix. Right? I mean, look, I did it:

So gorgeous I almost experienced a relapse of the previous night's spasmodic event and "tossed my lunch" into the toilet before even eating it.

After an interminable 15 minutes of chilling the mixture in my refrigerator, I rolled it into nine balls, per the box's instructions, and dropped them into the water that I had not only boiled in the interim but had somehow managed not to burn. (Yes, I have burned boiled water. This happens more often than you would think possible.) Also per the box's instructions, I covered the pot tightly with a lid, and proceeded to feel quite smug with my accomplishment. I also thought how proud my beloved Poppop, king of the matzo ball, would have been to witness this. For the duration of their cooking, I told myself, "Oh! His spirit guides me!"

Well, either my grandfather never loved me or his spirit was playing a not so nice trick on me, because my matzo balls wound up being the same size cooked as they were uncooked. Whereas Poppop's always magically expanded to the size of tennis balls and were fluffy on the outside with an e-e-e-e-e-ever so slightly chewy inside, mine remained the size of golf balls and were extremely chewy inside and out. I swear I heard his voice, inside my head, along with my mother's saying, "Oy! Vos iz dos?"

As one of my oldest (in terms of duration) friends, Mrs Z — born a lovely gentile, but who is more Jewy than any actual Jewess I know — said, when I told her of this escapade: Oy vey! The Mah Jong ladies and I had no idea Joy [note: this is my Jewier alter ego] was Jewy enough to make matzoh balls! Of course you ruined them by using “vegera… vegatre…veggete…vegetarian” chicken broth, instead of chopping off the head of a live chicken and boiling it yourself… but….we forgive you!

But I think that even she and my mother and Poppop would agree that at least it looked good:

The dark flecks are freshly ground black pepper,
not burnt bottom-of-the-pan scrape.

The lesson here is this: Just like with everything in life, when all else fails, at least make it pretty.