Since becoming a mother, I realized I’ve become quite ambivalent about holidays. On one hand, I like them because, well, they’re holidays. On the other, I really do not like them because they often involve spending a lot of time with family, which means having to travel to the south, which in turn means having a very upset baby for the next couple of days seeing as her sleeping and eating patterns become all screwy.

So Hannukah was no different. And just like on the September/October holidays, my poor baby got sick, although this was not as a result of traveling to the south but rather as a side effect of the shot she got the previous week.

So the first three days of Hannukah were spent lighting candles, eating doughnuts and shoving suppositories up my kid’s bum. The fever was finally defeated by Friday evening, and the next day, my husband and I had a very nice Shabbat. We took my baby and my dog out to the dog park as it was nice and sunny. On the way back home, my baby fell asleep. My husband chopped up some fresh veggies and we sat to watch TV. The rest of the day went by uneventfully, thank Goddess.

On Monday, my family planned a birthday party for my grandmother. It took place in a Karaoke place in Be’er Sheva. My husband and I absolutely DESPISE Karaoke. Seriously, Karaoke was the reason earplugs were invented. Karaoke killed the hippy with the unplugged acoustic guitar and his coombaya circle. Karaoke was created solely for people who can’t sing but who think they can.

But everybody was going to be there, including my cousin from Belgium. I spent most of that evening going back and forth between the room where my family was, with the awful sounds of Karaoke and the cigarette-smoke-saturated air, and the next room which had neither. My baby, being attacked by my family she doesn’t know and sounds she didn’t particularly care for, failed to fall asleep that night, as she is wont to do whenever she is anywhere that is not her bedroom.

A word about Karaoke:

Back in Montreal, I went to a drag queen club (Cabaret Mado) on an evening of Karaoke. The people who went up to sing were actually quite talented, so I wasn’t suffering much if at all. A couple of years ago, my friend from Sweden came to visit me in Israel and after she insisted endlessly, I joined her for another Karaoke night. She got up on stage and pretty much wiped the floor with any other wannabe singer who came up after her. So that was also ok.

But my family… no. Just no. I bring earplugs to most of my family’s dinner parties and holidays events because I know there is bound to be singing. And my family is made up of loud Moroccans who don’t need any electronic device to make them sound like they’re singing through a goddamn bullhorn. Earplugs have been my salvation in all my family events. But I forgot to bring them this time around.

Plus, the songs they choose in Karaoke are mostly Middle Eastern tunes. Anybody who knows me, even as a passing acquaintance, knows just how I feel about that music. Bleeding ears is not even the word.

So when my dad came to see me and my husband sitting in the other room, he said that he doesn’t understand why loud singing Moroccans torture us so much considering all the loud metal concerts we go to. The mere fact that he even compared the two was baffling to me. But I explained that the music we listen to involves extremely talented musicians playing their instruments like sheer gods, and talented vocalists tearing up their microphones, whereas the auditory abomination known as Karaoke coming from the next room has neither talented vocals nor talented musical instrumentation.

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE my family. So it was still nice to see them and to show off my daughter. But I’m glad that going to the south is not something we do too often, and I’m glad that Karaoke is not something that my family does too much either. But sometimes I wish these machines had Rammstein songs included in their repertoire. Because if they do, the next time my family decides to torture me with a Karaoke night, I will see to it that I will torture them back with some badass industrial German tunes.

Peace, love and also, seriously you guys have to stop smoking already.


Holiday My Ass


The Jewish Holidays.

Usually, they’re crazy. But this time, they were super crazy, with a twist of wild and the added element of insane. It was the first time I was to spend a holiday with my married family (my husband and my kid) and not my born one (my parents).

My parents decided to spend Rosh Hashana on the other end of the planet (Los Angeles). And since we were going to spend most of the holiday at my husband’s family’s house in the south of the country, my parents let us stay in their southern house while they were gone.

This however, didn’t prevent us from endless travels in the car, to and from different families’ houses. My 10-month-old, fearing anyone she doesn’t know, which is basically everybody, was attacked from all sides by people who were complete strangers to her.


She’s crying because you would too when complete strangers come at you from every side while screaming and making faces and trying to touch you. Put yourself in her tiny shoes for fuck’s sake!

She likes kids but they were all older than her and I kept having to shield her from the tempest of older kids who were running around like mad.

Being attacked by adult strangers and nearly being trampled by kids makes for a terrified and overstimulated baby and a worried mother who will know no sleep that night. My daughter didn’t fall asleep before 2:00 a.m. and I cried myself to sleep wishing I was back home in Jerusalem, where it’s quiet and comfy and where sleep is actually possible.

We spent the second day at my extended family’s place where there were still more strangers but also two other babies, so that was ok. We slept rather well that night.

On Friday we had lunch and headed home.

I can’t even begin to describe the amazing and relieving feeling of being back home. I felt like I do after I come back from a longass overseas trip.

“Thank. God!”

I think we were all relieved, including my daughter. In fact, she was so relieved she slept from 10:00 p.m. until 8:45 a.m. which is far longer than she normally does.

This upcoming weekend is the first time I will fast while taking care of a little baby. I can only imagine how BORED OUT OF HER MIND she will be since I won’t be able to do much. I don’t think anybody can do much when running low on fluids and nutrients.

My coworker suggested taking her to the park which sounded like a good idea at first until I thought about what that would involve, i.e. pulling a heavy ass stroller with an even heavier child up a flight of steps, walking to the park in the scorching sun, struggling to keep child away from yet another tempest of children riding bicycles, walking back home and dragging heavy stroller and child back down the flight of steps, and pass out.

I love the holidays. Really I do. But then again, not so much.


Peace, love and impending winter sucks too


No Regrets


The website Nego Sentro posted a list of 37 things I’ll regret when I’m old. I’m not old yet, but as a person who doesn’t believe in regrets, I still wanted to know just how right or wrong these people are.

As it turns out, I am still a person who doesn’t believe in regret and these people are full of shit.

1. Not traveling when you had the chance.

I am travelling at least once a year. In the past three years I’ve been to Belgium, Holland, France and Italy. In the past, I’ve been to Poland, Switzerland and several places in the States and Canada, and will soon go to Germany. Further potential destinations include Scandinavia and China.

2. Not learning another language.

I already know three languages, Hebrew, French and English, and am currently in the process of learning German.

3. Staying in a bad relationship.

I can’t say I’ve ever been in a bad relationship. And right now, I’m in a great one. So yeah.

4. Forgoing sunscreen.

Never happened.

5. Missing the chance to see your favorite musicians.

There are many bands/artists who performed when they were not yet my favorite. Once they became my favorite, they either died or stopped performing. Many, i.e. not all. I have seen Arch Enemy a few times, King Diamond once and will see him again, Ozzy once, and I go to European metal fests whenever good bands are on the bill. Next up is Wacken where I am looking forward to Amon Amarth and Carcass among others.

6. Being scared to do things.

Things? What like skydiving and bungee jumping? It’s not only because I’m scared but also because I have no interest in extreme sports. Watch horror movies and riding rollercoasters? Been there. Tattoos and body piercings? Done that. Be a little more specific and I’ll decide if I’ll regret it or not.

7. Failing to make physical fitness a priority.

Integral Tai Chi is my weekly thing. And it’s good shit. And even when you’re old, you can do yoga or martial arts or whatever you want. Age is not an issue when it comes to fitness. You ever seen those wrinkly old men who go jogging in the mornings?

8. Letting yourself be defined by gender roles.

You’re talking to a feminist. Try again.

9. Not quitting a terrible job.

I did that three times in my life, and am now pretty damn happy with my job.

10. Not trying harder in school.

I never had to try too hard to get good grades. I was smart.


11. Not realizing how beautiful you were.

That’s actually true. In my teens, I kept complaining about bad hair days and unmanageable messy curly hair. Today, I miss that head of hair and keep wishing I would get back my curls. However, today I appreciate my looks more than before. I especially love my belly and my chest. I got a good body, and I take care of it.

12. Being afraid to say “I love you.”

I did and still do say it. I was not afraid of it.

13. Not listening to your parents’ advice.

I’m mostly a good girl. If I don’t take my parents’ advice on one thing or another it’s because I know what’s good for me and what isn’t. I took my mom’s advice to eat red meat and spent the rest of the day on the toilet as a result. I know what my body needs. No more red meat for this girl.

14. Spending your youth self-absorbed.

I don’t think that is something to regret. I think it was a necessity. In my teens, I knew I was cold and selfish. I admitted it to myself and my family, and I was happy about it. Today, I don’t regret it because I see it as a necessary part of my psychological development. I saw it as a means of self-preservation, and it was super important to me at that stage in my life.

15. Caring too much about what other people think.

Actually, I never cared about it when I was younger. The older I get, the more I start to care, for other people, not for myself. But yeah. Most of the time, I don’t give a shit.

16. Supporting others’ dreams over your own.

What? Oh, maybe it’s for people who have kids and don’t support them when they pursue their dreams and shit. I’m not there yet.

17. Not moving on fast enough.

Physically? These people really need to get their shit together and start making more sense or being more specific… I think that these days, things are moving way too fucking fast. I like to stop and take my time and live in the moment. It reduces my level of stress and improves the quality of my life. I just don’t see how I’ll regret that.

18. Holding grudges, especially with those you love.

I rarely hold grudges. And with those I love, they tend to fade away pretty quickly.

19. Not standing up for yourself.

Sometimes, standing up for myself involves getting into a fight. So if not standing up for myself means avoiding a fight, I go for the cleaner of the two. And I never regret thwarting a fight.

20. Not volunteering enough.

I volunteer in my own way. I contribute my time and efforts to the Jerusalem Rape Crisis Center in several ways. I volunteer as a freelance reporter sometimes. I volunteered at the JSPCA once. I think I’ve done enough.

21. Neglecting your teeth.

I removed my labret to keep my teeth healthy. That was a major sacrifice, dude. And yes, I do brush, I do floss, and I go for yearly cleaning. My teeth will fall out eventually. No matter how much I take care of them, they will end up in a cup of water by the end of the day. This is part of being old.

22. Missing the chance to ask your grandparents questions before they die.

Done that. And what the people who compiled this list are forgetting is that grandparents will probably talk your ears off about their life and about “the good old days” without you asking them anything.

23. Working too much.

Ha! Not. I got lots of hobbies and I have a rich social life. I work when I’m at work and I’m very good at the skill of taking a break, taking a nap, take the time to cook and eat and meditate. No regrets there.

24. Not learning how to cook one awesome meal.

I know how to cook several awesome meals. So y’all can eat it. No regrets yet again.

25. Not stopping enough to appreciate the moment.

See number 17. Consistency, people!

26. Failing to finish what you start.

I can’t think of a single thing that I started and didn’t finish… I started learning German in university and didn’t take any further lessons until just recently. But I am committed to it now and I will finish it. Duolingo helps a lot.

27. Never mastering one awesome party trick.

I’m not much of a party person. So party tricks are not my thing. I rather go to a live show and headbang till my neck gets sore.

28. Letting yourself be defined by cultural expectations.

I don’t. Although in my culture, people love to tell me how to run my life, how to talk, how to dress, what to eat, when to marry, how many kids to have – none of that has any effect on me. I don’t know how these people never get tired of bugging the hell out of me with no results to show for it.

29. Refusing to let friendships run their course.

Done that more times than I can count.

30. Not playing with your kids enough.

Not there yet.

31. Never taking a big risk (especially in love).

A big risk? Depends what you consider to be a big risk. If dating someone I met online is a big risk, then I took it. Twice. If having unprotected sex is a big risk, I also took it. Three times.

32. Not taking the time to develop contacts and network.

“Networking may seem like a bunch of crap when you’re young.” It still seems like a bunch of crap. And I’m doing pretty good for myself. So there.

33. Worrying too much.

Nope. I take it easy.

34. Getting caught up in needless drama.

See previous question.

35. Not spending enough time with loved ones.

I live with two loved ones – my boyfriend and my dog. And I visit other loved ones (parents and family) every other weekend. That’s pretty good considering other people who see their loved ones once a month or only on holidays or never.

36. Never performing in front of others.

I did that a couple of times! Haha!

37. Not being grateful sooner.

I think that every time I overcome another hurdle, I become more and more grateful. Quitting my awful job, going through therapy, finding a great boyfriend and lover, getting a dog, living in Jerusalem, travelling, being happy… I’m grateful for all that. After I was diagnosed with Myotonic Dystrophy, and later after I broke my elbow I started appreciating my body more. Being grateful that I can still walk, talk, move without much effort, function perfectly fine in my daily life, and do so much more than other people in my condition could only wish to do. Also, during my weekly Tai Chi exercises, the final part is meditation and it involves the “stage of appreciation,” where you need to think of two good things that happened in the last 24 hours, no matter how small. The instructor says “a grateful heart is a happy heart.” And I’m pretty damn happy.

Regrets are a waste of time. Appreciate the past, live in the moment and believe in the future.

Peace, love and a bunch of other zen shit.



My cousins are getting married one by one. Two of my younger ones are married. Three out of the four living in Canada are married too. It’s nice and all and I’m happy for them. But recently I’ve noticed a trend running in my family weddings. Many of them are separate. That is men and women dance separately with a curtain between them.

It’s a religious trend that I never liked nor understood. At the synagogue, men and women sit separately. Fine. Whatever. I can somewhat accept that. But weddings? Really?

I wrote about this before and said that from what I gather, a wedding celebrates the coming together of a man and a woman (gay weddings notwithstanding). So what’s the fucking point in the mechitza – the separation?

One of my cousins (who is not yet married) said that he will definitely have a mechitza in his wedding. I told him he’s being stupid, and he said:

“Have you seen how women dress in weddings? The low-cut dresses, the tiny tiny mini skirts, the tube tops that fall down to their nipples all the time… it looks like they’re off to shoot a porno or something!”

Right, so because women are dressing in a way that doesn’t please my cousin too much, he needs to have a mechitza, which by the way, will also keep him from dancing with his bride, his mother, his two sisters, all his female cousins and myself, at his own fucking wedding.

Those of my cousins who opted for the separation at their wedding as well have all missed out on the pleasure of dancing with their mothers at their weddings. I just don’t understand that. And how are my aunts feeling about their sons refusing to dance with them? All my aunts and uncles got married in mixed weddings. My own mother also had a mixed wedding with my dad. The last wedding I’ve been to, my aunt was on the verge of tears because she couldn’t dance with her son at his wedding. My grandmother, who also thought of the mechitza as complete and utter bullshit, got angry at her and said:

“Come on already! That’s enough of that. Tear down that mechitza and go dance with your son!”

I bet that even my grandmother herself had a mixed wedding. When exactly did this whole mechitza business start anyway? The orthodox just made up this rule because they can’t bear to look at a woman without getting a hard-on. These people impose that segregation in all areas of their life. They even separate men and women on busses, the streets and neighborhoods, social events, concerts, everything.

But my cousins are not orthodox. Hell, some of them are not even all that religious. But at their weddings, suddenly they become all kosher and holy and oh-so I-shouldn’t-be-near-all-these-women-because-they-dress-like-sluts.

The last few weddings I’ve been to, I’ve avoided dancing for two reasons: either the music sucked balls because it was all Middle-Eastern crap, or because there was a mechitza. I wanted to dance with my boyfriend. I would have also liked to dance with my dad. And definitely dance with my cousin, the groom.

But instead, I stayed sitting at the table, poking at the chicken breast that was getting dry on the plate before me, thinking: “Please Mother Goddess, may it be Your Will that this may be the last of these dreaded separated weddings in my family.”

Peace, love and the more rules you add the less I care.

Give Me Back My Body


I just read a blog post about rape culture and how the blame of rape is put on the victim if she was drunk or wearing provocative clothing. Throughout the post, I felt like ownership of my body slipped right from under me. It’s not like I never knew it before, but every time I read a story about this girl or that woman being raped, followed by statements by the others such as “She shouldn’t have been drinking,” “she shouldn’t have been wearing that skirt/shirt/shorts/hairdo/makeup,” I feel objectified and just plain disgusted by the entire world and this shitty fucking society.

Like is mentioned in the above linked post, I sometimes get responses such as “Until you go live in the Middle East, you have no right to speak about rape culture.”

Number one, rape culture exists in every corner, in every cave of this godforsaken world because patriarchy perpetuates it and makes it ok to demonize a rape victim.

Number two, dipshits should know I LIVE IN THE MIDDLE EAST. So there. We’ve just cleared me of any silencing statements and from any declaration that says I have no right to speak my mind.

In terms of my opinions regarding ownership of my body, I feel like I constantly need to prove myself and stand up for myself in that respect. I’ve mentioned it in countless earlier posts, but my family clearly feel like they have the right to tell me what to do or not do with my body, my style of clothing, my hair, and body art. This for me is a blunt expression of “I own your body and can therefore tell you what to do with it.” If I were to confront my family about it, they would dismiss my claim as an exaggeration and make me feel stupid and guilty by saying something offensive like “Gosh! We can’t even talk to you anymore!”

Just this past month, I’ve been made to suffer endless pleads from my mom to show up at the Passover table wearing something “festive.” She was simply following her usual banter whenever holiday season comes around and dreads the moment I would show up at my grandmother’s house wearing plaid pants and an Arch Enemy t-shirt. Now I won’t have any problem wearing a skirt (except that I do prefer plaid pants and a metal t-shirt), but why do I still need to justify my style and claim my right to individuality and self-expression at 30 years of age?

Under the law, I’ve been considered an adult for the past 12 years. Twelve motherfucking years! Why can’t my mom just accept that I’m an adult, an individual, a mature woman with a unique style and who, despite all of society’s claims to the contrary, owns her body?

I’ve had this conversation (read: fight) with my mom on countless occasions. And on all counts, she made some dismissive statement that ultimately made me feel guilty.

I am in the process of writing a book about my years of psychological therapy and how I learned to free myself from the chains of guilt imposed on me by my parents. And although this therapy took place over four years ago, I feel like I’m back to square one. I know for a fact that my mom would make me feel guilty if I showed up with an outfit she doesn’t consider festive, or with a new piercing or a new tattoo… And she could do it without saying anything. The disappointment on her face would be inflicting all the guilt in the world and reiterating the same “I gave birth to you. I own you,” statement she says without even speaking.

I am so upset right now, I could cry. There is absolutely nothing I can do to make my family understand that I don’t want to be treated as a doll. If I said anything, it would be dismissed as quickly and painfully as a slap to the face.

OK, now I really am crying. My inner child is in pain. This isn’t right. This isn’t right.

It’s not fair that none of my male cousins get this treatment. They own their body from day one, no questions asked, while I’m 30 years old and still have to keep insisting and fighting and kicking and screaming for my body, and still have no claims to it.

I don’t wanna go to my family’s house for the holiday. I don’t want to cave in to my mother’s pleas and take my inner child’s needs for granted once again. And I also don’t want to respond to my inner child’s needs and suffer the guilt inflicted on me by my mother’s expression, yet again.


Not Funny


Yesterday, a couple of women came over to see the offices we have for rent. One of them was rather on the curvy side and when my boss introduced me, all she could think of saying was “You’re so skinny, it’s so unfair!”

When I responded that it’s not exactly my fault with an offended tone, my boss says “Don’t worry, she was just joking.”

My boss then proceeded to walking them around the office. As they were walking away, I hear the plump lady saying “OK, so the reception is where Hadass the Skinny works.”

When they came back to the reception area, the same woman turns to me again and says “Tell me, do you ever eat anything?”

I got offended yet again, so I went on the defensive and reiterated the fact that I’m not responsible for the way I look. “It’s genetics,” I said. “My mom is like that too.”

Then, the woman responded with an even more offensive statement: “Such chutzpa!” Chutzpa in Hebrew generally means arrogance or disrespect. “Such chutzpa that you have good genes and I have shitty genes!”

This time, I knew that if I responded with how I actually felt, which was not only offence but humiliation, my boss would again dismiss me by saying she was only joking.

Yeah, a joke, sure. My sides are splitting.

So I boiled within, and was almost on the verge of tears.

I wonder how it is that some people can say such horrible things, such insulting and hurtful things, and then make them sound ok by adding “I’m just joking.”

Some members of my family have picked up the habit of telling the younger family members that they’re ugly, when they actually mean that they’re the cutest thing on the face of the earth.

My older cousins keep talking this way to the four or five-year-olds in my family:

“What an ugly face!” They say, and then throw a fit of laughter. The little ones take it lightly as well, and laugh along with everyone else.

So maybe I’m kinda touchy on that subject, but what I do know is that if I ever have a child one day, I would never let a comment like that pass. Nobody will call my child “ugly” and get away with it. Especially if my child is a girl, because growing up, she will no doubt have enough body issues drilled into her mind without having to deal with family members calling her ugly, even as a joke. In fact, being bombarded with so much beauty propaganda from society and the media, my future daughter will actually benefit from a kind word from her family.

“You’re so beautiful!” Doesn’t that sound so much better?

When I was little, my family used to make fun of me because I had a lisp. They thought it was cute and imitated me whenever I said something with a lisp. I was obviously offended by that and as a result spent hours in my room practicing talking without a lisp.

I lost my baby fat and my skinny genes kicked in at a very early age, so my family also used offensive language when they commented on my weight.

I never got over it, as proven by my reaction to the curvy woman’s comment. And I never will get over it. Joking about my appearance and saying I’m arrogant and disrespectful because I happen to be born this way is totally inappropriate.

And no, I’m not joking about that.

Peace, love and beautiful words go a long way.

DIY Month – Day 10: New Recipe


My mom is truly an artist when it comes to food. When she makes a meal, especially for the extended family and for holidays, she makes food and sets the table with a particular theme and range of colors.

For example, one time, she made a special dinner for my cousin and his wife. My cousin is an optometrist, so my mom made a meringue dessert in the shape of glasses laid all over the table. Another time, she hosted my uncle who specializes in brain studies, and she baked bread in the shape of a brain.

So having my mom as a master chef, I always saw cooking as a form of art.

So yesterday, I decided to find a recipe I’ve never tried before and do it. I’ve always wanted to try to make a sweet potato pie and never had a chance to until now. I invited my parents over for a Hanukkah holiday dinner and made some things that I already know how to make – spaghetti with tomato sauce, baked vegetables, potato salad and green salad. I also wanted to fry a couple of veggie shnitzels but forgot (and during dinner my parents told me it’s totally unnecessary because there was a bunch of food already). And of course, I took my first shot at a sweet potato pie.

In the recipe, they suggest using a pre-made unbaked pie crust. But my mom told me it’s not a good idea and gave me a recipe for pie crust to make myself.

I had no idea how the blend of the crust or the pie itself is supposed to look like. The measurements they gave in the recipe was in cups and spoons, not in grams, so I wasn’t even sure if the measurements were ok. So I just made it, using my own judgement, praying that it won’t be a complete disaster. Also, I needed a rolling pin for the crust, but I don’t have one, so I just used my myotonized hands who protested for a bit at first, but eventually gave in. As a result, the dough wasn’t spread evenly on the dish. I tried to pull a Monk, evening it out as much as I can, but it didn’t work too well.

It also appeared to me that I may have gone a little overboard with the sugar in the pie mix (I used a mug instead of a regular glass… seeing as I don’t have a regular glass. Absurd, I know). And when it was in the oven, the smell of the sugar filled the house until my dog went bananas.

It looked pretty good at the end. But looking good may not always mean tasting good. So when the moment of truth came at around 7:30 p.m., when my parents came over, I was a little nervous.

We lit the Hanukkah candles, and then sat down to eat. I suggested we should have the pie last because of all the sugar, cinnamon and vanilla, it may as well be served as dessert.

My parents and my boyfriend greatly enjoyed the spaghetti, the baked vegetables and the salads. And then, my mom was the first to try the pie.

“Mmm, good,” she said. Then, as the taste buds adjusted to the new dish, “Wow, great! Oh my God! It’s super!”

“Really?” I said with quite a bit of skepticism.

“You gotta have some of this!” She said and served a few big slices to my dad, my boyfriend and me.

“And what about the dough?” I asked. “I wasn’t sure if the texture was good enough. I thought about adding an extra egg.”

“Nope, it’s perfect. That’s exactly what it’s supposed to taste like,” my mom said.

“And I was sure the pie itself would be too sweet…” I said.

“It’s great, try it!”

So I did, and it was super awesome if I do say so myself.

“It’s really an actual cake!” My boyfriend said.

I’m really proud of myself. I’m glad we have some leftovers so I’m totally gonna have some of it for dinner tonight. Yay!

If you’re interested in trying the pie out for yourself, here is the recipe.

A Badass Sweet Potato Pie

1 big sweet potato
1/2 cup of butter (I used 100 grams, softened)
1 cup of white sugar (avoid using mugs!)
1/2 cup of milk
2 eggs
1/2 teaspoon of ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
You can also add nutmeg but not necessarily

1) Peel sweet potato and cook until done. It’ll cook faster if you chop it first.
2) Mash the sweet potato in a bowl with the butter and mix with mixer.
3) Add the rest of the ingredients and mix on medium speed until the blend is even.
4) Pour the mix into an unbaked pie crust.
5) Bake at 175 degrees C (350 degrees F) for up to an hour or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean. Brace yourself for a blast of sweet baking sugar smell!
6) Cool before serving.

If you choose to use a bought pie crust, it will definitely be easier. But if you’re up for the challenge, here is the recipe for the pie crust I used.

2 cups of flour
175 grams of butter
1 flat teaspoon of salt
1/2 teaspoon of sugar
1 egg

1) Mix all ingredients together except for the egg to form a crumbled mix.
2) Add egg and knead into dough.
3) Spread on the dish, covering the whole bottom on the dish, and a bit on the edges.
4) Bake at 180 degrees C (356 degrees F) for 10 minutes.
5) Add the sweet potato mix and bake at 175 degrees C (350 degrees F) for up to an hour or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean.

Serve with love!

Holiday Dinner Table


The pie is on the bottom left.

Peace, love and sugar, honey, honey