A New Year
I didn’t grow up cooking for the Jewish holidays with anyone. We’d arrive at either Auntie Rae’s or Auntie Marian’s and the spread was laid.
Their homes on those nights were warm, the air itself was almost savory, the tables were leafed and extra extended with long tablecloths and card tables butted up to the big table always creating an uneven surface and fault line to watch out for.
I always assumed the matzo ball soup we started with was a secret special recipe. My grandma had a special way to make hers, which she was happy to loudly gossip just one room out of earshot from Auntie Rae was better than Auntie Rae’s. We all knew, it in fact was not.
I’ve now come to learn they all (minus my grandma) basically made the matzo ball soup from the box you can buy at the grocery store. What a wonderful revelation there’s no special secret I missed out on here–I can do it myself with the dump of two powder pouches and 20 minutes.
The brisket though–that was an Auntie Rae special. I’m lucky to have her recipe for it, although I’ve quickly learned that none of her recipes were really written as detailed as I’d hoped.
I spent 4 hours fretting about the 3.5 slab of meat in the oven yesterday–plotzing about assuming the simple “dump and cover and roast” directions were somehow not right. It’s unwritten, but I think to fret strongly is about as valuable to any Jewish recipe as the edible ingredients themselves.
My home yesterday smelled. Exactly. Like. Auntie. Rae’s (minus the moth balls). So much so that I could picture the cat under her bed we always desperately tried to coax out, all 6’ 6”ish of Uncle Hy trying and failing to blow the shofar, and cousin Ben accidentally knocking over one a potted plant and refusing to fess up to it.
Now almost all those people are gone, and the ones remaining aren’t in host-30-people shape. There’s no big holiday meal at home I’m missing. Even if there was, you wouldn’t need the card table let alone an extra table leaf to fit everyone. Those dinners were often riddled with chaos, but I’d love to attend just one more.
So I boiled the soup and roasted the brisket. I tossed a shofar on the table and we all gave it a shot and laughed. The memories flood back and my heart is full and broken at the same time.
I think about just how traditional this is, knowing they also ached for who wasn’t at the table, while simultaneously rejoicing in who was. I’m the one making the warm, savory home now. Turning the page. A New Year, a new chapter.
Their homes on those nights were warm, the air itself was almost savory, the tables were leafed and extra extended with long tablecloths and card tables butted up to the big table always creating an uneven surface and fault line to watch out for.
I always assumed the matzo ball soup we started with was a secret special recipe. My grandma had a special way to make hers, which she was happy to loudly gossip just one room out of earshot from Auntie Rae was better than Auntie Rae’s. We all knew, it in fact was not.
I’ve now come to learn they all (minus my grandma) basically made the matzo ball soup from the box you can buy at the grocery store. What a wonderful revelation there’s no special secret I missed out on here–I can do it myself with the dump of two powder pouches and 20 minutes.
The brisket though–that was an Auntie Rae special. I’m lucky to have her recipe for it, although I’ve quickly learned that none of her recipes were really written as detailed as I’d hoped.
I spent 4 hours fretting about the 3.5 slab of meat in the oven yesterday–plotzing about assuming the simple “dump and cover and roast” directions were somehow not right. It’s unwritten, but I think to fret strongly is about as valuable to any Jewish recipe as the edible ingredients themselves.
My home yesterday smelled. Exactly. Like. Auntie. Rae’s (minus the moth balls). So much so that I could picture the cat under her bed we always desperately tried to coax out, all 6’ 6”ish of Uncle Hy trying and failing to blow the shofar, and cousin Ben accidentally knocking over one a potted plant and refusing to fess up to it.
Now almost all those people are gone, and the ones remaining aren’t in host-30-people shape. There’s no big holiday meal at home I’m missing. Even if there was, you wouldn’t need the card table let alone an extra table leaf to fit everyone. Those dinners were often riddled with chaos, but I’d love to attend just one more.
So I boiled the soup and roasted the brisket. I tossed a shofar on the table and we all gave it a shot and laughed. The memories flood back and my heart is full and broken at the same time.
I think about just how traditional this is, knowing they also ached for who wasn’t at the table, while simultaneously rejoicing in who was. I’m the one making the warm, savory home now. Turning the page. A New Year, a new chapter.