For twenty-two years my mother-in-law supplied us with
delicious blintzes before Shavuos. This I found to be a most
satisfying arrangement. Then my mother took over the
tradition until she could no longer continue due to ill
health. There followed several years of tasty frozen ones,
with the best hechsher, of course, or spending Yom Tov
with one of the married children.
But, as was inevitable, the moment of truth arrived last
week. We were staying home and it was suggested that I try my
hand at this culinary challenge. I proceeded in my usual
fashion - with the written word. I copied recipes from three
different cookbooks and then consulted two gourmet cooks by
phone. I chose the least complicated recipe and prayed for
heavenly guidance.
Be-aproned, be-kerchiefed and with a new Torah tape for
company, I cheerfully - no: fearfully - began. Shortly, I
discovered that the two white bags I thought were flour
proved, upon closer inspection, to be sugar. The vanilla
bottle now said `rum'. But, boruch Hashem for well
supplied neighbors. So far, my prayers had been effective.
So here I was, finally about to begin. I had left myself 1
1/2 hours before leaving for work for the supposedly simple
task of preparing the outer layers, the bletlach. The
chosen recipe predicted that 18 thin, tasty leaves would
somehow evolve from the lumpy, gluey batter staring up at me.
After a 72 minute struggle, I emerged with a grease-encrusted
stovetop, 2 singed fingers and 9 thick omelette-size
irregular circles. There wasn't enough paper towelling in the
roll to absorb the excess oil. At that point, I was relieved
to leave the scene of the grime and stagger off to work. The
filling would be tackled on the morrow.
I had seen blintzes expertly made dozens of times, but it was
akin to sitting in a car, while someone else was driving. One
enjoyed the view, but didn't really pay attention to the
intricacies of the road - or take note of the signs. Now I
found myself in the driver's seat.
As much as I tried using the specified ingredients, there was
less of one, more of another and a third was almost absent
altogether. All the while, I thought of kabbolas
haTorah, recalled the moving, spiritual experiences of
davening at the Kosel on Shavuoses gone by and
wondered about those thick, inflexible Goodyear-like leaves
of dough (which spoke `volumes' for my skills). How could
they possibly be filled and rolled? Would they be edible?
Digestible? Worthy of the Yom Tov table?
The cheese filling remained the consistency of wallpaper
paste, despite my efforts. I've had fillings at the dentist
that may have been more expensive, but were less suspenseful
and far more professional...
The bletlach put up a brave resistance to being filled
and closed, but I persevered. At the crucial moment when I
was about to immerse them in a bathtub of boiling oil, one of
my daughters called. I balanced the receiver on my shoulder
while describing the adventures of a `blintza in the making.'
Suddenly, the filling escaped and hit the frying pan with a
360 degree splash. I jumped just in time! The empty blintzes
slid off the plate and everything sizzled together. My
offspring commented that I sounded as if were starring in
some slapstick Purim play.
Listed as one of life's mysteries is the following fact: In
spite of their humble beginnings and their burnt endings and
fillingless middles, for some reason, they were accepted,
eaten and enjoyed!
