Category Archives: Passover

Evolutionary Tradition

In his speech today to students in Israel, President Obama told the crowd that he started holding seders at the White House because he wanted his children to know the story and the message of the haggadah.

The things we do for our children.  My original motivation to create a special Passover experience came from being a parent. Or at least that’s what I told myself at the time. I wanted my children to have something unique, meaningful, and wonderful to remember.  I wanted them to learn the meta-messages of Passover, and to experience the joy of this holiday of hope and renewal.

Guess that plague!

Guess that plague!

This wish led the development of many new traditions and the reclaiming of some old ones as well.  Over the years, as my children have transformed from babies to young adults, our family tradition, and their roles in it, has continued to evolve.

What is tradition one year becomes history the next year, and what is new and experimental can quickly become standard, until it’s not anymore.  There’s a dynamism to the tradition that enables us all to keep growing.  The plays they used to put on during the maggid section of the seder, generally focusing on Moses, Pharaoh, and the plagues, gave way to paperbag dramatics as they emerged into adolescence, which then morphed into a Passover theme charades game, and now has likely receded into fond memories entirely.

Elijah arrives!

Elijah arrives!

One of the traditions my husband brought from his family’s seders centered around the arrival Elijah.  When it was time to open the door and welcome Elijah, suddenly who should be standing on the doorstep but Elijah himself, also known as Uncle David.  This custom had a long history in their family, going back at least one generation further to my husband’s grandfather.  My husband became our family’s Elijah, mysteriously disappearing from the table and arriving on at the front door in full costume, much to the delight of the young children.  And now, it has become my son’s job, a role he takes very seriously.

My daughter has taken on the role of commentator on the Four Children, a part of the seder that she finds troubling.  For the last several years, she has led us in discussing the problematic nature of this element of the seder.  The orange on the seder plate is also her contribution, and she carefully explains its role to any newcomers around the table who might not be familiar with this new addition.

Our evolved seder plate.

Our evolved seder plate.

I am proud that they have found ways to make parts of the seder their own, and to contribute to our ongoing evolution of tradition.  Every year draws on past years, and is a little bit different too as we all continue to learn more and grow.  Last night my son came home from post-confirmation class at the rabbi’s house and announced that he had some good material to talk about at the seder.  I can’t wait to hear what it is.

At this stage of parenting though, I have to look back and admit that much of what was done in the name of my children was really as much for me as it was for them.  When they were young, there was plenty I did with them not only because they would like it, but also because it gave me an excuse to do it.  Spend the afternoon in the park on a sunny afternoon? Let’s do it!  Play with playdough?  Sounds fun!  Put together a Lego Hogwarts?  Um, yes!  So too with the development of our seder rituals.  It was for them, yes, but thinking about my children’s needs and development gave me permission and courage to imagine what kind of seder I wanted for myself.  Parenting provided a framework within which to think about what Passover could and should mean, and then actually make it happen.

Which brings me back to President Obama.  It’s great that you want your children to get the message of the haggadah, Barack, but it’s ok if you enjoy it too.

 

 

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Passover Culinary Midrash

26907_379886335821_1042308_nSeder food is typically heavy – not only because of all the matza and matzah meal and brisket and potatoes, but also it is laden with layers  of symbolism and meaning.  The bitter herbs, the charoset, the salt water, the parsley, the roasted egg, even the matzah, are all part of the pedagogic underpinnings of this holiday that emphasizes retelling and remembering.  On Passover we learn not only from our texts, but also from our food.

My sister, Jenni Person, created the term Culinary Midrash, the concept of cooking as a midrashic response to text.  It’s a great way to learn, and she’s created many wonderful text study experiences that result in the creation of midrashic dishes using this technique.  In keeping with the Passover methodology of learning from food, I borrowed my sister’s concept to create a new Seder recipe.

When the Israelites are wandering in the desert, they begin to complain.  The trek through the desert is hard, and they are not yet fully on board with the mission.  They cry out that things were so much better back in Egypt, forgetting how difficult their lives were.  “We remember the fish we used to eat  freely in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic” (Numbers 11:5).  It’s a very human response to challenging times.  When the future is uncertain, it’s easy to  romanticize the past.

Out of that episode, I’ve created Leek and Artichoke Kugel.  On Passover we can celebrate our freedom with the foods that the Israelites longingly recalled on the long road to liberation.  Admittedly it’s not an exact match – I’ll leave the fish for the gefilte course, and the melon for the dessert course. I’ve 2738_66809740821_4963169_nreplaced cucumbers with their cousin the zucchini, and added in artichoke hearts in homage to Italian Jewish cuisine and to add some flavor.  But despite the changes, this dish is inspired by the Torah verse in which the Israelites, still a people more used to slavery than freedom, lament being brought out of Egypt by Moses.  This dish prompts us to hold onto hope and optimism even when our present seems bleak, while reminding us of the responsibility to work for a better future for all people.

B’tayavon! 

Leek and Artichoke Kugel, based on Numbers 11:5

8 Leeks, chopped

4-5 large shallots, chopped

2 teaspoons chopped garlic

1 cup carmelized onion (or two cups chopped onion)

4 jars artichoke hearts

4 zucchini, shredded

8 eggs

1-2 cups whole grain matza meal, depending on how loose you want it

salt, pepper to taste

  1. Chop leeks and add to carmelized onions over medium flame.
  2. Chop shallots and add to mix.
  3. Drain artichoke hearts.  Reserve liquid and chop hearts.
  4. Shred zucchini and add to mixture.
  5. When mixture is close to wilted, add chopped artichoke hearts.
  6. Sauté mixture.  Add 2/3 cup artichoke marinade and let it evaporate in pan.  Add salt and pepper.
  7. Remove from heat and cool.
  8. Beat eggs together.  Add to mixture and mix well.
  9. Add matza meal.
  10. Pour into greased baking dish (may make two batches depending on depth of baking dish).  Bake at 350 until it browns at the edges.

 

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The Books of Passover: An Ode to Cookbooks

Never mind the challah on the cover.  Another basic, must-have resource with good Passover recipes.

Never mind the challah on the cover. Another basic, must-have resource with good Passover recipes.

Books are a central part of my ongoing Passover education.  I don’t mean haggadot, though those are of course also essential and beloved, and I don’t mean our traditional texts dealing with Passover, though I study those as well.  What I’m talking about here is cookbooks.

Even though I was born Jewish, Passover prep, beyond the basics, didn’t come naturally to me.  It had to be learned.  In rabbinic school I studied codes and laws and customs related to Passover.  And at home I read cookbooks.

A good cookbook is much more than a collection of recipes.  Other than baking, where precision and chemistry matter, I rarely use cookbooks for the actual recipes.  I tend to create recipes based on ingredients and experience.  What I go to cookbooks for is history, the culinary byways that collections of recipes represent.  Why these spices were used, and why this ingredient is prevalent.  How changes in recipes over time represent changes in immigration patterns, or ruling powers, or economic status.  Jewish cookbooks are full of lessons in the day-to-day history of the Jews.

There’s this myth that authentic Jewish practice gets handed down seamlessly from one generation to another, but it doesn’t always happen that way.  I  learned about Judaism at home, enough to whet my appetite for more.  But since childhood I’ve been on an ongoing

A must-have Passover resource.

A must-have Passover resource.

journey, taking what I was given at home and deepening, updating, and enriching that original experiential base.  I’ve added back in things that were discarded along the road toward Americanization, and created new traditions.  Intentionally learned practice, once adapted and made your own, becomes as authentic as what’s handed down from ancestors.

I imagine that in generations past, women learned from their mothers and grandmothers and thus kept recipes and traditions alive, handing down knowledge from one to the next.  But that is not my story.  Many of my seder traditions are gathered from cookbooks, from years living in Israel, and from friends.  Modern concerns like vegetarianism, veganism, organics, food sourcing and so on have also impacted the seder table.  But maybe it was always like that, an ongoing evolution of tradition-meets-current-reality, and I’m only imagining a romanticized past.  For example, developments in beet sugar processing in certain parts of Europe meant that Jews in those areas began to eat a much sweeter diet than Jews in other parts of Europe, who relied on salt and pepper for taste.

My great-grandmother was supposedly a terrific cook.  I don’t remember much about her food, but I do remember her homemade blintzes, and I remember helping her stuff and fold them at her porcelain table in the Bronx.  But my grandmother, the only one I had,

My mother's copy of the balabusta cookbook.

My mother’s copy of the balabusta cookbook.

was not much of a cook or homemaker. No traditional bubbe was she.  Widowed in her forties, she went to work everyday as a bookkeeper.  She was not one to pass on recipes and techniques.  The only thing she took great pride in was her homemade gefilte fish.  Watching her make the gefilte fish was part of our pre-Passover ritual, until the year where we realized she didn’t remember that she had already added the salt – several times.

My mother cooks within the traditional Ashkenazi style, using family memories and what she, my sister and I call the “balabusta cookbook” but is actually called The Complete American Jewish Cookbook, by Anne London and Bertha Kahn Bishov.  For my mother, this is the essential reference, the one that has THE  correct recipes for the Jewish food she ate growing up.

When my sister and I got married, my mother gave us each a copy of THE book, now in paperback.  It was the must-have for us as we started our married, adult lives.  I don’t use the cookbook for that many recipes, but it is a great, basic resource.  Neither my sister nor I make the kinds of seders we grew up with, but for both of us the “balabusta cookbook” remains a touchstone, a connection to a certain

My copy of the book.

My copy of the book.

kind of cooking of the Jewish American past and to each other.

Passover preparation often begins with menu exchanges between the three of us.  Our respective menus are always very different.  My mother’s seder menu always includes chicken soup, gefilte fish, chopped liver, tzimmes, brisket, and potato kugel (she comes from the salt and pepper school, not the sweet). Of course there’s also a green salad, turkey breast (surely a new world adaptation), marinated grilled vegetables (a nod to living in a traditionally Italian part of Brooklyn), and desserts.  Plenty of desserts.

My menu draws from around the Jewish world.  It uses some of the Ashkenazi traditions I grew up with, but also borrows from other times and places in Jewish history.  My recipes take inspiration from the flavors of Italian, Moroccan, Syrian, Iraqi, and other Jewish communities, like pomegranate molasses, preserved lemon, pistachios, and artichokes.  I am a vegetarian and so there are many parve dishes for the non-meat eating crowd, but I also do serve meat (including my mother’s brisket).

Contains some good Passover recipes, including great nut-based cakes.

Contains some good Passover recipes, including great nut-based cakes.

Expanding the seder tradition out of the traditional Ashkenazi realm has been an intentional response to the reality of Jewish life in the 21st century.  My childrens’ heritage includes Germany, Poland, Russia, Alsace-Lorraine, Lithuania, South Africa, Israel, and Brooklyn, with some Portuguese roots thrown in.  I want them to connect to their (mostly) Askenazi legacy, but to also have an affinity to the whole of Jewish history.  I am far enough removed from the shtetl, and my children even more so, that it feels natural to claim all of Jewish history as our own rather than just one narrow slice of it.

For my mother, Passover cooking is a way to connect with the past.  Her “balabusta cookbook” is a guide to memories and tastes from back then.  For me, Passover cooking is about creating a new Jewish present that embraces the past while reaching toward the future. The “balabusta cookbook” is one of many that serve as guides to the culinary adventure of Passover.  Some are specific to the holiday, others are more broadly Jewish, and some aren’t Jewish at all but offer a recipe or two that fit the Passover guidelines.  All contain gems.

So if you’re looking for ways to expand your Passover creativity, do some text study and consult cookbooks.

Amazing history of Jewish vegetarian dishes, with some Passover recipes.

Amazing history of Jewish vegetarian dishes, with some Passover recipes.

Some of my favorites include:

Classic Italian Jewish Cooking by  Edda Servin Machlin (Ecco, 2005)

Joan Nathan’s Jewish Holiday Cookbook by Joan Nathan (Schocken, 2004)

Essence of Chocolate: Recipes for Baking and Cooking with Fine Chocolate by Robert Steinberg and John Scharffenberger (Hyperion, 2006)

The New York Times Passover Cookbook by Linda Amster (William Morrow, 1999)

Olive Trees and Honey: A Treasury of Vegetarian Recipes from Jewish Communities Around the World by Gil Marks (Houghton Mifflin, 2004)

Entree to Judaism: A Culinary Exploration of the Jewish Diaspora by Tina Wasserman (UJR Press, 2009)

Not a Passover cookbook, but it's got an incredible flourless chocolate cake: Orbit Cake.

Not a Passover cookbook, but it’s got an incredible flourless chocolate cake: Orbit Cake.

Book of Jewish Food: An Odyssey from Samarkand to New York by Claudia Roden (Knopf, 1996)

Aromas of Aleppo: The Legendary Cuisine of Syrian Jews by Poopa Dweck (Ecoo, 2007)

 

 

 

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The Grandest Story of All

IMG_3676Passover is my holiday. For me, it’s the big one.  Yes, Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur are big ones too – after all, I am a rabbi.  And even though I’m not a congregational rabbi, I’ve had the privilege of leading an amazing and special congregation on the high holy days for the last 15 years, and I love that I get to do so.  Sukkot and Shavuot are great too, of course, as are Chanukah and Purim and….

But Passover is my personal holiday.  It’s about the home.  It’s about the family.  It’s about the story.  And it’s about the food.

Passover has it all – slavery, degradation, trials, miracles, missteps, charismatic leaders, and eventually the triumph of liberation. Whether or not it contains actual historical truth – and that’s a question I’ll leave to the ongoing scholarly debate – it contains profound narrative truth.  The ultimate truth of the Passover story is its power to bind the Jewish people together for generation after generation.  The truth of Passover is its ongoing ability to teach us about continuity and survival, to impart the value of caring for the stranger, to call us to remember while pushing us forward toward the future, and to connect us to God.  It is our defining story, the story that shapes us as a people.

When I first began to think about how Passover was to be observed in my own home as a young adult, I searched for ways to make it special.  My motivation at the time was admittedly more parental than spiritual.  I wanted to create an approach to Passover that would make my children feel special rather than restricted. I wanted to create rich and meaningful memories for them.  And I wanted to create something that was unique to who we were as a family.

I grew up with seders that were fun and delicious.  There were readings from our minimalist haggadah that were especially beloved by different family members – my 26907_379886350821_6424778_nmother lighting the holiday candles, my grandmother carefully enunciating the words of the Ten Plagues, my father particularly drawn to the Edmond Fleg reading “I am a Jew because…”  And of course who didn’t love searching for the afikoman and getting a silver dollar from my father?  The rituals of the seder shared the spotlight with the food, which emerged from the kitchen in slow stages over the course of the long evening, each with its own meaning and history.

Later I encountered different kinds of seders: a Hillel seder in college which was tremendous fun despite the mediocre food shipped in from a kosher caterer across the state, a hundred college students drinking unlimited amounts of cheap kosher wine; a kibbutz seder held in the vast communal dining room, in which corn and rice held places of prominence on the table, the seder leader used a microphone, and the focus of the haggadah was on agriculture; a seder with my Moroccan flatmate’s family in Hadera featuring tumeric-yellow piquant fish in a spicy tomato sauce instead of gefilte fish, and many unfamiliar songs to which I could not sing along; a seder with ex-South Africans in Ra’anana with many little cousins spilling bottles of coke across the white tablecloths and an Elijah who miraculously showed up at the door demanding wine.

What’s evolved over the years at our home is a second night seder that I think of as our big annual performance art piece (I went to art school before I went to
rabbinic school).  I don’t mean that the seder is merely a performance put on for an audience, but rather that it’s meant to be a participatory experience in which all senses of those gathered around are fully engaged.  This is art created as interpretation of the Passover story, art that is meant to be lived and tasted and felt in the gut, an extension of what our tradition brilliantly began by imbuing certain seder foods like charoset with narrative meaning. It’s the four questions writ large – we eat this because…

Our seder involves weeks of planning and preparation.  It is the one time of year that my secret inner Martha Stewart comes out.  I have lists and charts and know what has to get done on what day in the weeks leading up to the seder.  I track which ingredients have to be bought when, and from where; which dishes can be made two or three weeks ahead and frozen, and which need to be made fresh right ahead of time.  It’s the one time a year that I can indulge in being the balabusta I don’t have the time or inclination to be the rest of the year.

The laws of Passover are important.  Reading the Haggadah is important.  But the real lessons of Passover in our home are food-based.  Each food tells its own part of the collective story.  The tastes, the smells, the colors, the textures are all important elements of shinantem l’vanecha – teaching our children what it means to be part of the Jewish people, part of chain of tradition that reaches back farther than we can see.

2738_66476935821_105691_nMuch of this is centered around the food, but it’s not just about the food.  And this is not just an update on my mother’s Askenazi lineup of greatest hits.  A menu has evolved, with small annual tweaks, that draws on my family’s history, my personal history, and Jewish history. And it’s more than the food – there are tables and chairs to order.  There’s the “eating down of the freezer” to make room in the weeks leading up to Passover.  There’s cleaning the cabinets and storing the chametz and getting out the special pesadik dishes.  And the guest list – who’s coming back from prior years?  How many new people do we have room to include?  There are tablecloths to clean and flowers to buy and silver to polish….

All of which sounds extremely mundane.  Yet it’s very spiritual, even the lists.  The making of order out of chaos, the cycle of the preparations, the turning back around to hope and liberation, the coming out from winter into spring, checking last year’s menus and guest lists and making updates while remembering seders past and former guests no longer in this world – all of this speaks of our ongoing story, of the importance of memory, of our ongoing survival and adaption and interpretation.  The extensive planning and preparing and cooking aren’t ends unto themselves, but a way to participate in the constantly unfolding miracle of the ongoing story.

 

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Introducing Fact/Fiction: A Blog About Books, Stories, and Publishing

I spend my days with non-fiction: editing and publishing books of liturgy and essays, managing numbers and words, spreadsheets and strategy.  And when my work days don’t spill over into the nights, I spend my evenings reading and writing and thinking about fiction.  As for poetry, well, that’s there in the mix too, spanning the day/night divide.  Much of liturgy is poetry, and there is much poetry in the liturgical publications we create.  And there’s the poetry I read (and occasionally write) when the sun has set.

After much prodding and encouragement, I am starting this blog to write about books, stories, words, texts and publishing – the main topics that occupy my days and nights.  And of course I can’t write about these topics without also touching upon Judaism, which for me ties much of this together.  Not clear yet if any of this will be of interest to anyone other than me – we’ll see.

26907_379886340821_2050093_nI’ve procrastinated starting this blog for a long time, but the timing finally feels right.  We are currently inching ever closer to our grand narrative of liberation, our central Jewish story.  Passover, the commemoration and celebration of our liberation from Egypt, begins next week and I am already knee-deep in planning and preparation.  Packed as it is with many stories, from the ancient to the modern, Passover is probably my favorite Jewish holiday.

As I prepare for Passover, I think even more than usual about stories – my stories, my family’s stories, and the stories of our people.  The stories are what underlies everything about Passover – the preparation, the food, the dishes on the table, the seder plate, the discussion around the table, and of course the retelling of the Passover story itself.

All holiday observances contain stories: why we celebrate this holiday, why we celebrate it this way, how it’s been done in our family, and so on.  But Passover, because it is such a home-based holiday rather than centering around the synagogue, is unique in its layering of stories upon stories.  As I prepare for Passover every year, I feel myself continuing to build upon those layers as I create new ones.

There is the way in which Passover is detailed in the Torah itself, the way the rabbis taught about Passover, the way Reform Judaism approached Passover, and the way I was taught to make Passover by my mother, based on what she learned from her mother and from her grandmother.  And then there are traditions we have created in our own home, some of which reach out to touch places and moments in Jewish history, and some which reach forward to the new.

So as I dip my toes in the blog-waters, I’ll be focusing for the short term on Passover.  Then we’ll see what comes next.  Thanks for joining me on this journey.

 

 

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