The article I’d planned on posting next is so grisly, I just can’t post it now. Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, begins tomorrow, and with it a very beautiful season of renewal. So I’ve set the article aside, but not without sharing that with each grisly discovery or insight I have into history, the more deeply I appreciate being able to celebrate my holidays, eat my foods and just be my authentic self. This is something I truly wish for all people. Αll. The world would be a sweeter place.
On Rosh Hashana we wish for a sweet new year. The theme is traditionally emphasized by eating honey, whereas beans, often in the form of black eyed peas, are consumed to encourage abundance and prosperity. Eating beans for prosperity is a Sephardic New Year tradition, though we’re not alone; on December 31st Italians eat lentils for the same reason, and modern Spaniards eat twelve grapes at the stroke of midnight. Continue reading
Last weekend I went to see the Medieval Haggadah exhibition that’s just opened at the Barcelona History Museum. For the first time since the Expulsion, eight illuminated Haggadot, made in Catalunya in the 14th & 15th centuries, are in their country of origin after having been smuggled out hundreds of years ago to save them from destruction.
I’d hoped one or two of them might be opened to illustrations of a Medieval Catalan Seder table, and that among the foods represented I might spot a mina. It wasn’t an unrealistic expectation. Mina is a Passover meat pie that’s unique to Spanish Jews, essential to our holiday meal and as significant for us as any ritual element of the Seder. The why has been a huge mystery for generations already. I grew up finding not a single attempt anywhere at an explanation, and no wonder: it took me years to unravel it satisfactorily myself, and I had to move to Spain to do it. Today I begin to explain it all for you. If pies could talk… Continue reading
Today a ramble about a great cook and some cakes.
Of all the great cooks in my family, my grandfather’s sister Rachel (ra-SHEL) was the one who blew everyone else out of the water. Like a molecular chef without the gimmickry, Αunt Rachel knew how to turn everyday ingredients on their heads. Her flavors were huge and delicate at the same time, and textures light as a feather, yet so satisfying, you never felt underfed for eating so ethereally. I remember a salad dressing of hers that seemed to hover above the lettuce leaves. (For real). There was something rare and astonishing about her hand. Among those who knew her, the pleasures of Aunt Rachel’s cooking were legendary, and invitations to dine chez Tante Rachel were the stuff of envy.
Like so many great cooks of her generation, she took most of her culinary secrets to the grave, but there was one she recorded – one – and I was given a cherished copy.
The first time I set out to make Aunt Rachel’s Cake (which we’ve only ever called Aunt Rachel’s Cake), I was living in a tiny mountain village outside of Rome, where days were long, supplies were limited, and my kitchen gadgets consisted of a box grater, two flimsy wire whisks, and a mortar and pestle.
Mandela, Lazio. My cake was born in the tall bright house to the right of the cluster of trees. Photo mine, taken in 2005.
Aunt Rachel was gone several years already, and had retired from the kitchen long before that. (She lived to be 102). Continue reading
It’s Pi Day, so here’s something to chew on.
Most parents aren’t prepared to teach their children a first language, let alone a second one. They just talk to their babies who, being babies, soak it all up, and before you know it they’ve figured out how to make themselves understood around the house. The next time languages come up, the kids are turning twelve and on their way to junior high. I believe this is the real reason so many Sephardim of my generation never learned to speak Ladino.
As small children, my siblings, cousins and I already knew we belonged to something very special. Even so, we were kept a little bit apart from our culture, observers as much as willing participants in our living heritage. We learned to cook. (Delicious!). We learned our family history. (Fascinating!). We learned traditional melodies. (Beautiful!). But when it came to their utterly charming language, most bets were off. Though we may have heard it every day, my elders more often spoke at us in Ladino (typically to shower us with endearments) than with us. Nor with my dad, who they adored ( in case you’re wondering), and he had even taken up Spanish when he was dating my mom. Continue reading