Sherry Fishman
Copyright 2013
I write this as a person admittedly obsessed with food. I love cooking, baking, eating, and enjoying foods of the world. There is a joke we Jews tell about our holidays: They tried to kill us; we won; let’s eat.
For me, comfort food is based in Ashkenazic Jewish preparations. But now, every one of the foods so emblematic of the Jewish way of life are now off limits for me.
Every Friday Bubby took out the flour, made a volcanic pile of it on a large wooden bread board; she delved her fist into the flour to make a well in the center. While she blended the salt and sugar into this pile of ground wheat, the fresh cake of yeast bubbled in luke warm water until it began to spill over the top of the glass. This she poured into the well along with five eggs; then she added more water and oil, and put her hands to work blending, mixing and kneading the dough using heel of her hand. As I helped her, she would guide my hands on the dough, folding it over and kneading again until it stretched into the perfect texture for the rise. The yeast scented the room; the braiding and egg wash with a sprinkle of either sesame or poppy seeds sat on top of loaves rising while the oven warmed. The whole house became fragrant. The golden loaves lay cooling until she and Mama lit the candles. I loved Friday nights.
Sometimes Bubby pulled pieces of challah dough off, rolled it into circles, then added chopped onions which became "pletzlach." These were for Saturday morning; they were delicious with cream cheese. This was a Friday ritual, as sacred as all the blessings.
Those times preparing food for the holidays with my mother and grandmother became sacred; baking challah, making chicken soup, along with lighting candles, sweet wine blessings, create, as well as celebrate, the Sabbath. And always they bring my Bubby and my mother alive. For me there is no Shabbat without baking challah; nor is there a high holiday without an extra sweet version of these golden breads.
Rosh HaShana meant watching Bubby stretch strudel dough across her knarled fingers as the dough took on the resemblance of an opaque bridal veil across the tops of her knucles. I still hear her voice: "Aut azei, meine kindt, aut azei." Like this my child, like this", as she taught me.
She also baked Mandel Bread (almond rusks); after the first bake, she offered me the soft vanilla and almond laced pieces, warm and luscious. I cannot imagine a holiday without baking these breads and pastries. Bubby is with me; so is my mother, whose kugel, made with rich egg noodles, is still one of the best kugels I have ever tasted.
Chanukah meant fried foods, potato pancakes, fritters, and sometimes in Sephardic friends' homes soufganiyot (doughnuts).
Passover meant matzoh, instead of bread. Although we didn't bake these at home, even Matzoh is linked to a ritual that made it delicious to me. We weren't allowed to eat a bite of it until the Seder began and we had the first taste of it. I loved it's crackling texture. I loved matzoh brei; I loved the matzoh balls, either fluffy, or dense. I loved the homemade gefulte fish mixed with a binder of matzoh meal to hold the balls together.
In early Summer/late Spring on Shavuot, during the celebration of receiving the Torah , Mama and Bubby made blintzes filled with creamy cheese, kugels with layers of ricotta and sour cream, because we ate lots of dairy foods on this holiday. Often we had homemade yeasted coffee cakes, rugelach, and mandel bread with coffee. These meals were intrinsic to the rhythm of our lives.
Every Sunday we had Jewish brunches: lox, bagels, bialys, challah French toast. Often Sunday evenings we had Jewish deli; rye breads stuffed with corned beef, kaiser rolls holding homemade hamburgers.
Purim begins tomorrow. I am craving real Hamentaschen. Both Bubby and Mama baked them and even mailed packages to us kids when we moved away. It is customary to give these sweets as gifts on Purim. These are a ritual that signifies this holiday to me.
There are many substitutes, alternative recipes, and efforts to create a semblance of these, but there is no comparison. There are no real challahs, rye breads, or bagels made with alternative flours. One cannot create the same feel, texture, taste, or fragrance.
I know I am fortunate to live in Portland, OR, where there are so many places that offer many types of gluten-free items. I know I am able to eat foods that are delicious. But as a Jew for whom traditional foods actually mean the holiday, I must be honest: I feel bereft.
