All I Want for Christmas Is a Ceasefire
Picture of the nativity scene with baby Jesus in rubble. From Bethlehem.

I wrote an article for Arab America, which was then republished by Yes! Magazine and Truthdig. I’ve posted it below.

Christmas has been canceled in the Holy Land. Decorations that have hung for years in Bethlehem have been taken down, parades will not take place, and streets typically overflowing with tourists are empty. Thus, the cultural and religious holiday that commemorates the birth of Jesus Christ will be celebrated by billions across the globe but not in the place where Jesus—and Christianity—were born. 

The Patriarchs and Heads of the Churches in Jerusalem, an interdenominational group of church leaders in the Holy Land, made the announcement on Nov. 10. While the season is normally marked with delight, “These are not normal times,” they wrote. “Since the start of the war, there has been an atmosphere of sadness and pain. Thousands of innocent civilians, including women and children, have died or suffered serious injuries. Many more grieve over the loss of their homes, their loved ones, or the uncertain fate of those dear to them. Throughout the region, even more have lost their work and are suffering from serious economic challenges. Yet despite our repeated calls for a humanitarian ceasefire and a de-escalation of violence, the war continues.” 

Outgoing mayor Hanna Hanania told the Catholic News Agency, “Bethlehem, as any other Palestinian city, is mourning and sad… We cannot celebrate while we are in this situation.”

So, on Christmas Eve, at the Catholic church in Los Angeles where I worship, red poinsettias and pine trees with lights will line the altar. Children will reenact the feast of the Nativity. Some will wear angels’ wings and others will carry shepherds’ staffs. The next morning, they’ll wake up to numerous presents hidden under the tree and even more from Santa. All this while the streets surrounding the Church of the Nativity—the actual birthplace of Jesus in Bethlehem in the occupied West Bank of Palestine—will be dark. Mass will be simple. Those who have money for extra will give it to others who have lost their homes and livelihoods. 

This paradox feels unbearable. It reminds me of Zaina Arafat’s essay “Witnessing Gaza Through Instagram,” in which she writes, “‘Everything normal right now is obscene,’ I heard Israeli journalist Amira Hass say early on in the war, and it’s true. Even sitting down to articulate this moment feels obscene.”

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#ceasefireforgazanow and forever 🍉🍉🍉
@cabotcove.bg STOP BOMBING GAZA STOP OCCUPATION Picture of a woman wearing a red hijab with her right fist in the air.

If the US president thinks we have $105 billion to fuel another forever war, then we can find at least 105 billion ways to stop it. Here are some resources for being part of the movements calling for a #ceasefireforgazanow and to #freepalestine.

Last updated Dec. 3, 2023

Contact every day all these lost politicos who aren’t listening

So annoying that they’re not listening, but make emailing them part of your daily routine, like brushing your teeth. Unfortunately, you have to give your name, address, phone number and email, and oddly your “prefix,” but on many of the sites remember it for the following day.

If you’re undocumented or part of a targeted group and don’t want to give the government all of your deets, then call instead of emailing. Don’t be surprised if they don’t pick up or voicemails are full or non-functioning. So we have $ for war but not to staff offices?

Follow the Palestinian Feminist Collective

Download the All Out for Palestine Digital Toolkit and share it with your networks online and in real life.

Remembering Karl Friedrich Schmid
Picture of Karl Schmid

November 11, 1937 – May 8, 2023

Karl is my uncle, married to my mother’s oldest sister, Anne, who many call “BB” and I call “Beeb.” These are just a few memories I carry of him.   

A staunch New Yorker, Karl was eager to share his love of the city. The son of German immigrants, he grew up in Queens. After an army career that kept him and his family on the move, and a stint in Ithica, he lived in Manhattan and welcomed everyone to join in on the fun. He spent the final years of his life in Los Angeles.

To know Karl, was to know New York City (NYC). To love Karl, you didn’t have to love NYC, but if you didn’t, you better not be very vocal about it. And if anyone could change your mind, it was him.

Uncle Karl and Beeb hosted me in their apartment on the upper east side in 1994, the summer before I turned 19. After high school, I left the suburbs of Los Angeles and moved to Spain to chase a dream of becoming a supermodel. When I landed in New York, I had worked as a fashion model for a year in Barcelona but had no idea how competitive the NYC market would be.

My aunt and uncle were generous hosts. They gave me keys and let me come and go without a curfew. They helped me decipher all the maps to use public transportation to get where I was going. Of course, this was long before cell phones or Google.

Every weekday, I’d pound the pavement looking for my big break. No matter where I was in the city, I’d make sure get back in time for a home-cooked meal by Uncle Karl. As soon as I walked in the door, Beeb would welcome me and scoot me into the bathroom to wash the city’s grime off my hands and face.  

Arriving home in time for dinner was a treat. As soon as we’d sit down, Uncle Karl would take a sip of his wine and ask, “So, how did it go?” A veteran and engineer, Karl knew nothing about modeling or fashion—and honestly, he could have cared less. But he cared about me and my goals. The interactions around that table offered me a daily reset and reminder that I was okay despite the day’s defeat.

An added bonus was that Karl was a great chef. I credit him for my love of fish. He’d cook in a white apron and BB would do the dishes after dinner. The contents of their fridge were sparse because he’d stop on his way home from work every day to get the freshest ingredients. He’d walk some 20 blocks home because he loved the bumble of the city and found the summer heat in the subway oppressive. Towering at around 6’5”, he had a great view of whatever was happening no matter the block.

I have never seen someone yell at the nightly news like Karl could. The first time I heard it I think I literally jumped, not expecting such a gentle giant to rage at the television. Something about the corrupt politicians ruining the boroughs. His passion for NYC saw no limits.

When it came to the weekends, I can’t even name all the firsts that Uncle Karl made sure I experienced that summer. We walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. We saw the musical Cats on Broadway. We took the train to see a Yankees game with my cousin Hansey, Karl and BB’s youngest son, who had just graduated from college and was staying with his parents that summer too. Karl didn’t hold it against me that the Dodgers had moved to my side of the country or that my nuclear family and I were Dodger fans.

No matter the outing, Uncle Karl eagerly shared all the history and context he could to help me better comprehend that we really were at the center of the universe. Part of the fun was seeing the city through the wonder of his eyes.

One Sunday afternoon, Karl and Beeb took me to see a ballet at Lincoln Center. It was a moving performance, so I was surprised to look over and see Uncle Karl asleep. Afterwards, as we walked down the stairs of the plaza, Karl said, “Well, I had a really good nap—an expensive one, but a good one nonetheless.” He smiled from ear to ear. BB rolled her eyes and we all had a good chuckle.

Years later when my husband, Tommy, and I went to the theater, and he fell asleep next to me, I immediately got mad and elbowed him awake. Then I remembered how much Karl had enjoyed his rest, and I let Tommy sleep. I did learn to measure which shows we went to see in order to avoid paying for a very costly cat nap.

Karl and BB were avid fanatics of the New York Times (NYT) Sunday crossword puzzle and would hand that paper back and forth to each other all week long. I can imagine him in his chair with his long legs crossed, staring at the folded paper with a pencil in his hand. When they got a word, their satisfaction would be short lived because there was always another clue that needed to be solved. I think they had four-inch-wide dictionaries to help them in their quest. I don’t know how they felt about the NYT Daily Mini Crossword, which came out a few years ago. If they had played that, I may have been able to keep up with them.

A few years ago, a short letter I wrote to the LA Times editor was published. Two weeks later, I called BB for her birthday. Karl answered and before passing the phone to her he said, “I appreciate what you had said in the Times.” I was taken aback by how he could be so learned, supportive and matter of fact all at the same time. I was also shocked to hear that he was reading the LA Times, but I bet he still read the NYT first.

Though I never did work in NYC or become a New Yorker, I am a big fan of the Big Apple. And according to my mom, after several years in L.A., Uncle Karl and BB finally gave in and became Dodger fans.

Just a few hours before Uncle Karl passed away, I had a sweet dream about my brother, Peter, who passed six years ago. Petey was in his chef coat walking towards the train to get on the gold line going west. In the dream, I thought he was on his way to work in Pasadena. Several hours later, it brought me great comfort to think that he was actually on his way to pick up Uncle Karl and that they’re now cooking up a storm and toasting us all from beyond.

After I texted my cousin Hansey about it, he responded: “A lot of good food is being made between Peter and Dad. Heaven’s lucky.”

God bless Karl Schmid and all who loved him. He was a generous man who loved his family and hometown. I am a better person thanks to having known him.

Scholarship Fest Supports Student Success

I handle marketing communications at Cal Poly Pomona, which allows me the opportunity to manage campaigns focused on making young adults’ lives easier and better. One example is the recently wrapped Scholarship Fest. The article I wrote below highlights its success. It was first published on our university news site PolyCentric.

Scholarship Fest Increases Applications, Money Awarded

Graphic that reads: Scholarship Fest: All colleges, Hundreds of Scholarships, Thousands of Dollars. www.cpp.edu/scholarships scholarships@cpp.edu Office of Financial Aid & Scholarships

This year’s Scholarship Fest awarded over 340 scholarships and $1.65 million to Cal Poly Pomona students, a 20 percent increase in scholarships and an additional $300,000 more than the $1.35 million awarded the previous year.

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Carrot Tops Are Not Orange

But they are edible! Who knew?

I only found out because they were in my farm box from Cal Poly Pomona, which you can buy online here. I figured if they hadn’t cut off the tops then maybe they were like beet tops, which are as yummy as Swiss chard.

So thanks to some inspiration from this recipe from The Guardian, I made a pesto sauce from the carrot tops! SO easy and delish.

Make sure to use organic as the tops get the bulk of the pesticides.

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Fresh Produce Changes Everything
14.5 pounds of fresh veggies and citrus

I feel like it’s really dramatic–and privileged–of me to say that. And yet, it’s true. Since I started picking up a box of locally-grown produce from Cal Poly Pomona, about five weeks ago, everything’s changed.

Up until now, I haven’t been part of the “eat local” movement because I live in a part of L.A. that isn’t trendy enough to access it. I was going to get Farm Fresh to You based on a friend’s recommendation but they only deliver during the night and anything left on my doorstep would be stolen before dawn.

So when Cal Poly Pomona announced it had started a “Farm Box” program that allows you to pick up CPP-grown produce for just $26–and that every purchase supports student success–I thought I’d try it out. I had no idea how much it would impact my life.

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This is not a food blog
Picture of the author laying on the couch with her dog lying on top of her. The author smiles at the camera and is wearing an apron.
Molly snuggles up on me for a post-cooking and eating nap. My mom sewed the apron I’m wearing as a Christmas gift for my honey years ago. Little did we know I would be the one using it!

I’ve spent most of the last year in my house due to COVID-19. I didn’t expect to become part of the trend of folks learning to cook during the pandemic, but eventually I got sick of the same old plates and eating takeout all the time was not an option. (more…)