I’ve got no time to write and truthfully, with something burning in my stomach, if I wrote, it wouldn’t be good so I’ll let it sit a while and figure if words will do justice to the injustice of others, of what a place of worship should be but all too often is not.

For now, I’ll tell you that the soup is cooking, the sweet challah dough is rising. I have the heat on so the house is warm. It’s gray and raining outside and I love it. So cold, so winter, so rare. It’s family this weekend, quiet. Elie and Lauren cut tons of vegetables for the soup and left me instructions what to do with it this morning.

I’ve made three quiches (broccoli, mushroom, and corn) and soon a non-meat lasagna will go in. Today is Aliza’s 12th birthday on the English calendar so I’m going to make her a case as well. The real celebration will take place in a few weeks, on her Hebrew birthday (or near it anyway).

What peace you find on a day like today comes from within the home. Yesterday and this morning, rockets were again fired at Israel; I continue to receive messages of hate. One came yesterday which I put through, insisting the Ahmadinejad didn’t say he wanted to wipe Israel off the face of the earth. It was a play on words – instead of using the name “Israel” – he called us the “occupiers of Jerusalem” – well, duh – takes a brain and a map to figure out who he is talking about.

And then last night on Twitter a former Lebanese Prime Minister told his 79,000 followers that he had, apparently, accidentally greeted an Israeli and he was certainly sorry. If he had know, he never would have spoken to him.