By Ronit Eitan –
The freezer door opens, and the cool air hits me in the face, giving a momentary reprieve from August’s unbearable humidity. I reach and pull out the red plastic container full of panko breadcrumbs that sits crammed at the back. Although a sizeable container, it is surprisingly light in weight.
On the counter, three large soup bowls wait. My designated schnitzel bowls, a role they had successfully fulfilled since they were “babies”—deep enough for the chicken to be fully submerged within their parameters, but not too deep so that I can’t easily fish the cutlets out, with little effort, to the next bowl. Anyone who has ever made schnitzels knows that once you find the perfect schnitzel bowls, they become your schnitzel bowls forever.
“Hi Ima,” I say, getting everything ready. The phone sits on the counter; I have my earbuds on, the Bluetooth fully activated.
I fill the first bowl with an airy mountain of all-purpose flour and move half a step to the left. I crack two large eggs into the second bowl, splash some cold milk in, and whisk vigorously with a fork, creating an emulsified concoction that rests between a liquid and a glue texture. Satisfied, half a step later, I tilt the red container, filling the last bowl with the cold beige panko crumbs. A tablespoon of sweet paprika goes into the breadcrumbs, and with a different fork, I swirl the spice in with intention. The little burgundy specks will ensure the desired brown color once fried. Everyone has their own special schnitzel trick.
When I was in my twenties, we held a schnitzel competition, thinking we were so cool with our childish challenges in an adult form. Entries varied: lemon zest or a teaspoon of grainy mustard in the egg mixture, white sesame seeds or even cornflakes in the breadcrumbs, and a sprinkling of onion powder or a garlic granule in the flour. For such a straightforward and humble dish, the amount of personal tweaking it could evoke was astounding.
“I’m making lunch for the kids,” I say while separating the thin, precut chicken cutlets, peeling each slice from their clear plastic dividers. I paid extra for that pleasure, uninterested in cutting and pounding them like I normally would. I’m not in the mood.
“Yes, well I only have six bottles of mineral water,” I say while dipping the first light-pink chicken flesh in the flour mixture, lifting it, shaking off excess flour as it catches air. One at a time. I’m not one of those people who dips them all in flour at once. Patience makes for a great schnitzel.
The sound of an ambulance siren outside filters through the house. My heart speeds up. They should change that sound; it’s too much like a bomb siren. I dip the chicken cutlet in the flour bowl again. Both sides need to be completely covered, if even a centimeter is exposed the coating will fall out, creating an island of barren coating.
“Yes, I know it’s not enough. I was at the supermarket, and they ran out of water, everyone is panicking,” I say.
After my unsuccessful venture at the supermarket, I spent my morning filling various containers with tap water. Mason jars, glass pitchers, vintage vases for flowers—all had become emergency water vessels should an attack occur. I resisted filling my Tupperware with water. Barely. We will not die from thirst.
“Just because your taxi driver said we will be attacked this Sunday, it doesn’t mean that it will happen this Sunday, Ima,” I say as I submerge the cutlet in the egg mixture. The pale-yellow color, like lemon chiffon, swallows the cutlet whole. I make sure to do this with my fork so as not to have direct physical contact.
“Yes, Ima, the shoes are also next to the door, like always,” I say. My eyes drift to the pile of shoes—the ones we put on quickly when a siren is on to rush to the bomb shelter. My eight-year-old’s bright pink Crocs, my twelve-year-old’s black sneakers, teenage phase activated, and my own fashionable ones, maroon oxfords with slight heels. A fashion stylist with a young child from the next building joins our bomb shelter on a regular basis, her casual “miklat look” perfected. I wish she would move away. I don’t need that kind of pressure in my miklat as well.
“Let me talk to Aba,” I say, sticking my fork deep in the flesh—four markings, deep holes in an otherwise smooth canvas, securing my hold. I lift the cutlet from the egg, watching the string of liquid that stretches from the cutlet to the bowl, like a tail, unwilling to detach itself completely. I force it into the breadcrumbs with a plop.
“I am thinking about buying a generator,” I say to my dad. The cutlet disappears in the bowl. I press it down with my fingers. Hard. Flip. Press hard again with my knuckle this time. It becomes one with its surroundings, camouflaging itself in the sea of grains.
I layer the uncooked schnitzel on a clean plate. On to the next. One on top of another. My fingers accumulate clusters of breadcrumbs like tiny chicken nuggets. I rinse them under cold water.
“Walla? Huh… I thought a generator was like a giant battery. I guess I will have no use for it if there is a fuel shortage. You just saved me four thousand shekels.”
I have ten memorial candles somewhere around the house I can use if my power shuts off, hoping they are not a foreboding metaphor for my immediate future.
“Okay, Aba, the kids are hungry, I’ll talk to you later,” I say, pressing my left ear to disconnect. I sometimes press the wrong ear; the volume goes up.
I place a large nonstick pan over medium-high heat. Pouring the pale corn oil, it coats the bottom layer, a good three centimeters deep. Shallow frying is the key.
I wait, restless. It must get to the right temperature, I chide myself. If I get too impatient, the schnitzel will absorb the oil instead of using it to crisp up. I snip a piece of a schnitzel and drop it into the hot oil, testing out the temperature. The chicken sizzles, rising to the top. It’s time. I lift them one by one, dropping them in, enjoying the hissing sound. Like a puzzle, I maneuver them in the pan. How many can I fit in?
Getting impatient, I turn one in the pan. The color isn’t right—it should be amber brown, not this straw color. More time needed. I place layers of toilet paper on a different plate, since I am out of paper towels, to absorb the excess oil once they are done. Tiny bubbles surround the schnitzels, and the smell of fried food drifts from the kitchen to other rooms in the house. Soon, my kids will be lured; that sense memory will linger in their psyche long after I’m gone.
Once the first round is ready, I observe the oil, specked with burned breadcrumbs left behind. I bring the first pile of schnitzels and place them in the middle of the large wooden dining room table. White rice and a chopped cucumber and tomato salad that nobody eats but me are there.
“Food!” I yell. They are home; I want them all nearby. My children and my schnitzels.
They emerge from their rooms and sit at the table, each grabbing a few schnitzels. “That’s not everything. I am frying more,” I say. I can’t eat.
“You want me to cut the schnitzel for you?” I ask my youngest.
She nods, fully focused on her phone. I allow it. No news, just mindless cartoons on.
I take her plate to the kitchen, debating which knife to use. On Oct. 7, I counted the knives in my kitchen drawers. I had three butcher knives, ten butter knives, and a bread knife that I could use as a chainsaw. I use that one to cut the schnitzel into tiny bite-sized pieces.
I return and put the plate in front of her, then turn around and go back to the kitchen. With a spider, I weave out the burned breadcrumbs, discarding them in the trash. I turn on the gas, and pour more oil into the pan, watching, waiting for it to get back to temperature. I count my knives again. The new addition, a small tourné knife, used to cut little strings of cucumber to adorn my favorite Vietnamese salad once upon a time, before the war, might be useful to take out a terrorist’s eye if another invasion occurs. The schnitzels, one by one, go in. I push each around, trying to form a different puzzle
Ronit Eitan, novelist and PhD candidate in the English Department at Bar Ilan University, is Creative Director of Writing on the Wall.
