Celebrating the Holidays

It’s time to revel in fish

During the nine days before Tisha b’Av, a day of fasting and mourning, it is customary to refrain from eating meat – but not fish. Here are some fish salad options for that week – and the rest of the summer – as well as some sauces that are great for both fish and vegetables. This year, Tisha b’Av starts the night of July 17.

CUCUMBER AND FISH SALAD
(I adapted this recipe from Food & Wine. It makes four to eight servings.)

2 large cucumbers
1 1/4 pounds skinned fresh cod, haddock or sea bass fillet
1 chopped scallion
small bunch chopped dill
salt & pepper to taste
5 tbsp milk
4 tbsp mayonnaise
2 tbsp sour cream or plain yogurt
4 black or green olives & cucumber ribbons

Peel one cucumber and dice in a bowl. With a vegetable peeler, remove six long strips from second cucumber, then dice and add to bowl. Sprinkle with salt then drain on paper towels.
Place fish in a frying pan with scallion, some of the dill, salt and pepper and milk. Poach until fish begins to flake. Remove and let cool.
Wash and drain cucumber and dry. In another bowl, mix mayonnaise with sour cream or yogurt. Stir in cucumber and fish. Garnish with olives and cucumber ribbons.

CLASSIC CEVICHE
(I adapted this recipe from Food & Wine. It makes eight servings.)

1 pound fresh, skinless snapper, bass, halibut or other fish fillet, cut in half-inch pieces
1 1/2 cups fresh lime juice
1 medium white onion, chopped into half-inch pieces
2 medium-large tomatoes chopped into half-inch pieces
1/3 cup chopped cilantro
1/3 cup chopped pitted green olives
1 to 2 tbsp olive oil
salt to taste
3 tbsp fresh orange juice
1 large or 2 small peeled, pitted, diced avocados
tortilla chips for serving

Combine fish, lime juice and onion in a glass or stainless steel bowl. Add more lime juice to cover fish and allow it to float freely. Cover and refrigerate four hours until a piece of fish, when broken open, no longer looks raw.
In a large bowl, mix together tomatoes, cilantro, olives and olive oil. Stir in fish and salt. Add orange juice, cover and refrigerate if not serving immediately. Before serving, stir in avocados. Serve with tortilla chips or crackers.

HORSERADISH WHIPPED CREAM SAUCE

1 tsp prepared mustard
6 tbsp horseradish
1 tsp salt
1/8 tsp pepper
1 cup whipped heavy cream

Combine mustard, horseradish, salt and pepper. Let stand 15 minutes.
Fold in whipped cream.

PIQUANT HERB SAUCE

1/2 cup dry white wine
1/2 cup parsley sprigs
1/4 cup white vinegar
1 small quartered onion
2 large garlic cloves
2 1/2 tsp dried crushed tarragon
1/4 tsp dried crushed chervil
pepper to taste
1 cup mayonnaise

Place white wine, parsley, white vinegar, onion, garlic, tarragon, chervil and pepper in blender cover and blend until uniform.
In a saucepan, stir over medium heat until reduced to 1/3 cup.
Strain, return to saucepan, stir in mayonnaise. Heat until warm. Garnish with chopped parsley.

CHIMICHURRI

1/2 cup olive oil
1/2 cup chopped parsley
2 tbsp chopped cilantro
2 tbsp fresh lemon juice
2 large minced garlic cloves
1 tsp crushed red pepper
1 tsp red wine vinegar
1/2 tsp sweet smoked paprika
1/2 tsp dried oregano
1/4 tsp kosher salt

Mix all ingredients in a blender.

DILL CREAM SAUCE

1/4 cup dry white wine
2 dill sprigs
2 medium minced shallots
1 cup unsalted pareve chicken soup
1 1/4 cups whipping cream
salt & pepper to taste
2 tbsp snipped fresh dill

Combine wine, dill sprigs and shallots in saucepan and bring to a boil.
Add pareve chicken soup and cook to reduce to two tablespoons.
Stir in cream, salt and pepper. Bring to a boil. Cook until thick, about seven minutes. Before dishing out, stir in dill and serve hot.

Sybil Kaplan is a journalist, lecturer, book reviewer and food writer in Jerusalem. She created and leads the weekly English-language Shuk Walks in Machane Yehuda, she has compiled and edited nine kosher cookbooks.

Why is night different?

It was the first night of Passover and I was feeling miserable. By now, I recognize the ache. It’s the one I get when I am thousands of miles away from my family.

Away from the days of being young and just naturally assuming there would be a seder night with family. Away from old familiar melodies and reminders. I remembered when my mum would say a prayer in a funny British accent, or how we would all be tapping our hands vigorously on the table while singing. I’d be sitting with siblings and cousins, playing games with the matzah, sneaking a sip or three of heavily sweetened kosher red wine and counting down the time until we could eat.

Forty years ago, after leaving Israel, I moved to London, where there were always relatives to fill that gap. However, back in the younger days, my Jewish identity took something of a back seat. As a teen in Israel, I always wondered why I wasn’t allowed to join my friends at the beach on Shabbat. As a child, we were raised as Orthodox Jews but, when we immigrated to Israel, some of the traditions, sadly fell by the wayside.

Vancouver eventually became my permanent home and, initially, I’d always worry where I would be spending the Jewish holidays. Frequently, friends and kind strangers invited us to their homes. It only seemed to deepen the family longing pangs.

When I became a parent, my husband and I began to host our own celebrations and seders and we always included strangers and synagogue friends. Fortunately, when my oldest son was 3, we became friends with another family. They knew some family-less people and it wasn’t long before we all celebrated the Jewish holidays together, a tradition which has continued – until recently.

When the pandemic began and social distancing became necessary, holiday gatherings were cancelled. Zooming on our phones became the norm. It was different. Something of a novelty.

A few days before Pesach this year, I glanced at the secular calendar, which indicated Sunday as the eve of Pesach, so I arranged for our kids and partners to come Sunday night. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon Saturday that I realized I had goofed and Pesach commenced that night. By 4 p.m., the sadness had crept in. My sister had phoned from Israel and filled me in on the lovely seder she had attended.

My brother had sent photos. All the well-wishers had phoned and sent greetings.

For the first time in many years, my husband and I would be all alone and unprepared. There was little motivation to do anything. We ordered an Indian (vegan) meal to be delivered. I forced myself to light the festival candles and mutter some prayers. Then, the phone rang for the first time in hours.

It was a good friend. She sounded excited. Although she had hosted many a seder elsewhere, she was holding her first with her daughter in Vancouver, rather than attending an organization’s or other event via Zoom.

“You must come over and see my table! It’s so beautiful! Even just for a few minutes,” she said.

I begged off because we would be seeing our infant grandson the following afternoon and just couldn’t take the chance. Besides, our delivery would be arriving any minute. “Cancel it! We have lots of food here!”

I would have dearly loved to have dropped everything and gone to her house. I recalled how, some 20 years earlier, she and her daughter had attended our seder. We settled on a FaceTime call and sang the Shehecheyanu blessing together.

A knock at the door; our food had arrived. We said goodbye. But my friend’s enthusiasm was infectious. Her phone call, when I so needed to be remembered, reminded me that we weren’t, in fact, alone in the world.

We pulled out Haggadot and some of the seder plate preparations for the following day. Miraculously, there was enough kosher wine to get us to the third glass of wine and the spilling of the wine for the 10 plagues. My husband and I took turns reading while the candles flickered.

Unlike most of our past seders, it was quiet and peaceful.

This year, I really asked myself: “Why is this night different?”

The answer could be lengthy but I do know that, on this particular night, there was a little soul intervention.

Jenny Wright is a writer, music therapist, children’s musician and recording artist.

Grilling kebabs for Lag b’Omer

Grilled skewers make great Lag b’Omer fare. (photo from pixabay.com)

Lag b’Omer, which this year starts on the eve of April 29, is not mentioned in the Torah. The holiday isn’t mentioned anywhere, actually, until the 13th century, and no particular foods are associated with it.

The Torah does command us to begin counting the Omer on the second night of Passover. Omer, which means sheaf, was a measure of grain from the new barley harvest cutting, brought to the Temple on the 16th of Nissan. Fifty days later is Shavuot. Thus, the counting of the Omer provides a bridge between the Israelites being freed and receiving the laws. The seven-week period is a period of mourning, when observant Jews do not shave or get haircuts and when there are no marriages or public festivities.

The respite is Lag b’Omer. Lag is a combination of the Hebrew letters lamed, which stands for the number 30, and gimmel, which stands for the number three. The 33rd day of counting the Omer commemorates the time when students of the second century’s Rabbi Akiva, who supported Bar Kochba’s rebellion against the Romans, were struck with a plague. On this day, it stopped.

Most Jewish holidays feature different symbolic foods. In Joan Nathan’s Jewish Holiday Cookbook, Lag b’Omer barely gets a mention, as “a time for picnicking” – she suggests roast chicken, eggplant salad, German potato salad, Moroccan carrot salad, fresh fruit and cookies. Of all my many Jewish and Israeli cookbooks, the only one that devotes an entire chapter to Lag b’Omer food is A Taste of Tradition by Ruth Sirkis. She says the bonfires mark the beginning of the outdoor cooking season and recommends pickle dip, tehina, mini relish trays, mixed grill (kebab and shashlik), pita, baked potatoes, baked corn, fruit and lemonade.

Here are three tips for grilling on a skewer: flat or square skewers will keep the food from revolving; if you spray the grill before cooking, foods will not stick; and partially cook vegetables before threading on a skewer, so foods cook in the same amount of time.

And here are a few recipes.

MEAT AND POTATOES SHASHLIK
(6 servings)

2 pounds cubed beef
1/3 cup balsamic vinegar
1/4 cup olive oil
1 tbsp Dijon mustard
1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
2 tbsp soy sauce
1 tbsp cilantro or parsley
12 small red or white potatoes
2 small onions, quartered

In a plastic bag, combine balsamic vinegar, oil, mustard, Worcestershire sauce, soy sauce and meat. Close and let marinate two hours or, if refrigerated, up to eight hours.
Place potatoes in a saucepan and cover with water. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and cook for 15 minutes. Drain and place in a bowl.
Pour some marinade into the bowl of potatoes and toss.
Thread six skewers, alternating meat cube, potato, meat cube, onion quarter, meat cube, potato, meat cube. Thread the remaining potatoes and onions on extra skewers.
Grill skewers three inches from the heat for five minutes on each side (for medium rare), more for well-cooked, basting with marinade before turning.

LAMB KEBAB
(6 servings)

1/2 cup olive oil
2 tbsp red wine vinegar
1 tbsp minced garlic
1 1/2 tsp Dijon mustard
3 pounds cubed lamb
2 red bell peppers
2 green peppers
2 quartered onions
12 mushrooms
1/2 cup chopped cilantro

Place olive oil, vinegar, garlic, mustard and lamb in a plastic bag, close, shake and set aside.
Core and seed peppers, cut into one-by-two-inch pieces. Add to marinade along with mushrooms. Place in refrigerator at least four hours.
Place onion quarters on a plate and brush with some of the marinade. Thread meat on skewers, alternating with vegetables and allowing three pieces of lamb per skewer. Grill three inches from the heat for five minutes per side for medium rare, brushing with marinade when turning.

GRILLED VEGETABLES
(8 servings)

1/4 cup olive oil
1/4 cup red wine vinegar
1 tbsp minced garlic
2 tsp Dijon mustard
1/2 tsp basil or oregano or Italian seasoning
2 quartered red onions
1 red (or yellow) pepper cut in 1.5-inch strips
1 green pepper cut in 1.5-inch strips
4 halved plum tomatoes or 8 cherry tomatoes
4 squash cut in half-inch pieces
1 eggplant cut in half-inch pieces

In a plastic bag, combine olive oil, wine vinegar, garlic, mustard and spices. Add vegetables, close bag, toss and let marinate at least three hours.
Using one skewer for each vegetable, thread onto skewers allowing half an inch between each. Grill three inches from the heat source for three to five minutes, carefully turning. Place marinade in a bowl. Slide vegetables off skewers into marinade and toss.

Spreading joy on Purim

In the kitchen, left to right, are Stacey Kettleman, Leah Reghatti, Francie Steen, Deborah and David Freedman, Shelley Ail and Linda Rothberg. (photo from Beth Tikvah)

This Purim, Beth Tikvah Congregation packaged more than 240 holiday bundles, delivering one to every member household – spreading not only joy, but raising funds for the synagogue’s preschool and Hebrew school.

“As we enter the month of Adar, our tradition teaches, we must increase joy,” explained Rabbi Susie Tendler, the congregation’s spiritual leader. “The talmudic statement (Ta’anit 29a) is not specific about whose joy we are increasing, rather that it is incumbent upon us to spread joy and cheer, brightening these dark days. Communities around the globe have certainly been wrestling with how to deepen connections and spread joy this past year. Beth Tikvah decided to take the wisdom of our tradition and do so through festive and colourful mishloach manot, Purim packages, that went to every member family living in British Columbia.”

photo - More than 1,000 hamantashen were baked and more than 240 mishloach manot delivered — More than 1,000 hamantashen were baked and more than 240 mishloach manot delivered. *(photo from Beth Tikvah)*

The effort was multigenerational. There were the volunteers in the kitchen, who made more than 1,000 hamantashen. B’nai mitzvah families and the congregation’s youth groups (USY and Kadima) helped assemble the packages. There were the volunteers who counted, sorted and put the finishing touches on the packages, and those who picked up and delivered the packages all over Richmond and Vancouver. And, of course, the whole endeavour would not have been possible without those who funded it.

photo - More than 240 mishloach manot were delivered — The finished packages. *(photo from Beth Tikvah)*

In addition to all the congregants who ordered the mishloach manot and volunteered in various ways, Isha L’Isha was a sponsor of the initiative, Leanne Hazon supported the program “relentlessly during all hours of the day,” Alon Sabi designed the ordering system, and BT program manager Yvette Sabi created the boxes.

“For me,” said Tendler, “particularly during COVID, the opportunity to hang a bundle from someone’s door, ring the bell, and then step back three metres or so, and wish someone a happy holiday personally was splendid. However, the joy did not stop there. We received an outpouring of communications from people testifying to the joy and surprise felt from these packages which, in turn, deepened the joy felt by all of the volunteers. It is true, sometimes the little things bring the biggest smiles, and one smile significantly sparks another smile.

Childhood memories

Chicken soup with matzah balls is a staple of the Ashkenazi Passover seder; for meat-eaters, at least. (photo from onceuponachef.com)

My father used to start the seder with a joke. One I remember was: Abe goes to see his boss and says: “We’re doing some heavy house-cleaning at home tomorrow for Pesach. My wife says she needs me to move all the heavy furniture, clean the stove and even clean out the garage.” “We’re short-handed Abe,” the boss replies, “I just can’t give you the day off.” “Thanks boss,” says Abe. “I knew I could count on you!”

Passover was both an exciting and an embarrassing time for me. Both my parents were born in Australia in the late 19th century, when Jews were quite a rarity there. The influx of Jews from Europe to Australia only began after the Second World War, when those lucky enough to survive the Holocaust reached our shores. Back then, I was the only Jewish child in my school, so I had no Jewish friends and, apart from some family members, neither did my parents. Of necessity, we were quite assimilated, as there were few facilities available for Jews in those far-off days.

Still, we adhered to some traditions, and one was the seder. As a child aged 7, it was exciting for lots of reasons, but I had no one to share it with except my two brothers and two sisters, all much older than I was. Our family of seven would sit around the table with Great-Aunt Frances and Uncle Dave, and some of our non-Jewish neighbours, who looked forward to being invited to join us in this, to them, odd ceremony every year. One of them was Penelope, who had a daily radio show and, the next day, she would relate to her listeners all the details that she understood and that seemed to fascinate her.

The table would be set with a white tablecloth and all the traditional seder trappings, with a big decanter of raisin wine my mother had made. I was wearing my “best” dress, which I loved. Like most people during those Depression years, we had very little money, so most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my sisters. But this one had been bought especially for me and I loved it – pink velvet, with puff sleeves and a lace collar. It broke my heart when I outgrew it.

My father, of course, sat at the head of the table, a big pillow on his chair for reclining. Dad was a man of enormous contrasts, something of a genius. He knew Hebrew, Latin and Greek and thought no one could call themselves educated without an acquaintance of these classical languages. But he was also very modest, rarely let it be known that he was a scholar, and had a fund of off-colour stories that always made me blush and resulted in my being very prudish well into adulthood.

He would conduct the service from the Haggadah in Hebrew, giving explanations in English all the way through. He said that the Wise Son who asked questions at the seder was so intelligent that no one had the faintest idea what he was talking about. The Wicked Son had to be excluded from the table, so he went back to work and got paid double-time for working on Pesach. When the Simple Son asks, “What is this?” you just tell him, “It’s dinner.” And, as for the one who does not know how to ask, you go and wake him up and say, “Next year, remember to come to the table.”

When it came to the Four Questions, Dad had transliterated the “Ma Nishtana” for me in big English letters and the guests all thought I was very clever to be reciting something in Hebrew when I was only 7. I did nothing to disillusion them. I loved the singing and so did our guests, who, after some coaching from Dad, sang along with us heartily, with mostly mispronounced words. I remember we always sang one song in English, “Chad Gadya”: “Only one kid, which my father bought for two zuzim….”

A good meal followed, although my mother – a great cook of Australian dishes – didn’t do too well with Pesach recipes, as her own mother had died when she was my age, so she didn’t have the benefit of learning from her mom. But she tried valiantly. The chicken soup was good, apart from the matzah balls, which were as tough as bullets; and her gefilte fish I won’t attempt to describe. Our guests probably thought we were meant to suffer, and this was just another punishment like having to eat matzot for a week.

Just as I couldn’t share my friends’ Christmas and Easter festivities, I didn’t even tell them about our seder. But now I realize how special it was. When I close my eyes, my family are with me again. Maybe that seder was the last time we were all together in person, as my two brothers soon went overseas with the Royal Australian Air Force. The younger one, shot down over Rommel’s lines in Tobruk, never returned. Over the intervening eight-plus decades, the losses have multiplied. There is only one beloved sister left, and she is in Australia.

I would love my parents to be able to see my family at a seder in Israel. We are more than 50 people now, including all the grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I am sure we observe it more authentically today, but there is something special I have lost that can never be replicated – the family I once had, who gave a little girl love, safety and security.

When I think about our seder table back then, it’s not just about the matzot, shankbone, roasted egg, bitter herbs and charoset. I see the family I have loved and lost, and hear the jokes and the songs and the laughter. I have come a long way since then, both spiritually and physically, but the seeds were planted back then, at the seder table with my family, who will never be forgotten.

Dvora Waysman is a Jerusalem-based author. She has written 14 books, including The Pomegranate Pendant, which was made into a movie, and her latest novella, Searching for Sarah. She can be contacted at [email protected] or through her blog dvorawaysman.com.

Symbolisms of the afikoman

Ask any young child, and even some of the older ones, what is the best part of the seder, and the answer will probably be – looking for the afikoman.

The afikoman is the name of the middle of the three portions of matzah that accompany the seder plate. As part of the seder, the leader breaks the middle matzah into two pieces, and the larger portion becomes the afikoman.

Several interpretations of this word have developed over the years. One is that it is of Greek origin, possibly from the word epikomas or epikomios, which could mean after-meal songs and entertainment or dessert. This meaning would then be the basis for the custom that one is prohibited from eating or drinking after tasting the afikoman – to prevent emulation of the Greek custom of going to parties after plentiful meals. Afiko means remove and mane means dishes. In other words, we have finished, so let’s go to another place and continue celebrating.

Abraham Chill, in his book The Minhagim (customs), writes that, in ancient times, after concluding a meal, people would call out “afikoman,” a combination of the words afiko, take out, and man, meaning sweets. Since the afikoman matzah symbolized the paschal lamb, this referred to the idea that, by eating the afikoman, it would be the last taste in our mouths after the seder, and one would continue to think and talk about the Exodus.

The Mishnah says, “One may not add afikoman after paschal meal.” Chill relates that the lamb was the last portion of food eaten at the seder. Since the destruction of the Temple, the afikoman became the symbol of the paschal sacrifice, which took place in Temple times on Passover night.

Before the end of the seder, it is customary for the leader to hide the afikoman. After the meal, the children try to find it and ransom it back for money or presents. Tradition also says the idea was a gimmick to encourage children to stay awake during the seder.

Jews of Iran, Afghanistan, Greece, Kurdistan and Bukharia keep a piece of the afikoman matzah to protect against the “evil eye,” and for good luck.

Among some Jewish groups, pregnant women carry a piece of the afikoman with salt and coral to hold during delivery.

In Iraq and other Middle Eastern countries, during the seder, children wrap the afikoman in a piece of material and tie it to their backs. They leave the room and pretend to be travelers. When they return, the seder leader asks: where are you coming from? They reply, “Egypt.” The leader then asks, “And where are you going?” And they respond, “Jerusalem.”

Some Sephardi groups and others do not follow the custom of “stealing” the afikoman for ransom from the children. Yemenites also do not participate in this custom. They say the Hebrew letters in the word afikoman – aleph, peh, yud, kaf, vav, mem, nun – stand for the following words: aleph for egozim (nuts); peh for payrote (fruit); yud for yayin (wine); kaf for keliyot (granules of grain); vav for u’vasar (and meat); mem for mayim (water); and nun sofit for nehrd (spices).

Whatever your customary rituals for the holiday, may you have a happy one.

A Pesach like never before

Cabbage matzah never tasted so … good? (photo from pixabay.com)

Have you ever eaten cabbage matzah? Probably not. But, in Chelm, the village of fools, they still talk about it….

Many winters ago, to battle an outburst of influenza, the villagers of Chelm used all their chickens and most of their vegetables to feed their sick neighbours in Smyrna a healing chicken soup. The Smyrnans got better, but, in Chelm, all that was left was cabbage.

Because of this food shortage, the Chelmener ate cabbage for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Mrs. Chaipul in her restaurant served cabbage porridge, cabbage stew, cabbage stuffed with cabbage, cabbage brisket (don’t ask) and cabbage cake for dessert.

No one was happy. The children whined, teenagers complained, fathers groused and mothers growled and snapped. Only Doodle the orphan, who had an unfathomable love of cabbage, enjoyed the food. But, he quickly learned to keep his appreciation to himself.

Reb Cantor the merchant had hoped for a delivery, but supplies were not expected to arrive until after Passover.

One morning, there was a timid knock on the door to Rabbi Kibbitz’s study.

“Go away!” The learned man was cranky from excessive consumption of cabbage.

Rabbi Abrahms nudged Reb Stein the baker into the room. “We’ve come up with a solution.”

“Rye bread?” Rabbi Kibbitz’s eyes gleamed hungrily. “Challah? Babke? Strudel?”

“Stop it! No!” Reb Stein cried. “You’re making me hungry. I have invented cabbage matzah.”

The wise rabbi stared at his friend the baker. “That sounds horrible.”

“It is,” Reb Stein admitted.

“But it’s kosher for Passover!” explained Rabbi Abrahms, the mashgiach responsible for everything kosher.

“No one is going to want it.” The poor baker was near tears.

“Bake it anyway,” sighed Rabbi Kibbitz. “I’ll pay for it out of the discretionary fund.”

Reb Stein nodded glumly and returned to his bakery.

The weather was fine that year, so the villagers planned the community seder to be outdoors in the round village square.

“The menu is a marvel,” Mrs. Chaipul sarcastically explained to Rabbi Kibbitz. “Cabbage ball soup, chopped cabbage liver, poached cabbage, braised cabbage, cabbage charoses and, of course, Reb Stein’s cabbage matzah for the afikomen.”

Rabbi Kibbitz suppressed a wave of nausea. “At least we’ll be outside, so we won’t smell it.”

Aside from young Doodle, no one was looking forward to Passover.

On erev Pesach, everyone trudged to the round village square to commemorate the Exodus from Egypt. With a sigh and a blessing, the service began.

The wine flowed. Reb Cantor the merchant had opened a locked cellar and rolled five barrels of “I don’t know what vintage it is, but it’s not cabbage” to the round square.

“This is truly the bread of affliction,” Rabbi Kibbitz said as the thick brassica afikomen snapped with a resonating crack!

Reb Stein looked doleful.

At last, after the Hamotzi, everyone tasted the so-called matzah.

It was revolting. Not only was the greenish cabbage matzah bitter and sour and cabbage-flavoured, it was dry and stuck to the roof of your mouth and your teeth like grout on tile.

Everyone quickly mumbled another blessing, and gulped down another cup of wine.

Through his tears, Reb Stein the baker, who was a craftsman at heart, began to laugh. His laughter spread around the table. It grew loud. It grew raucous.

Young Doodle took the opportunity to jump up onto a table and bang his glass with a spoon.

Quickly the laughter died down. Such behaviour in the middle of a seder had never been seen! Fortunately, Doodle had taken off his shoes and wore clean socks because Mrs. Kimmelman never would have forgiven him for getting dirty footprints on her best tablecloth.

Doodle began, “I know that you all hate cabbage!”

There were cheers and boos and applause.

“But,” he continued, “I look around and see my whole community gathered together and I can’t help but think how grateful I am. We have our health. We have our homes. We have one another to support us.”

It is rare for the villagers of Chelm (or indeed any gathering of Jews at mealtime) to fall quiet, but a hush spread.

“We are blessed that we live in peace and freedom, and are not enslaved.”

Now there was nodding and shouts of, “Amen!”

“Raise a glass with me,” Doodle said.

All glasses were held high.

“For this cabbage that we eat tonight,” Doodle said, “represents the hope that, one day, all women, all men, all people will be freed from oppression and slavery.”

“And freed from more cabbage!” heckled Adam and Abraham Schlemiel together.

“May we all live in peace!” shouted Rabbi Kibbitz, who had gotten completely caught up in the moment.

Then, with a rousing “Mazel tov!” the villagers of Chelm toasted, drank and ate with gusto.

The next morning, Rabbi Kibbitz realized something as he talked with Mrs. Chaipul.

“Actually, that was one of the best seders ever. And the food.…” The wise old man looked around the restaurant to make sure no one else was listening. “The food was delicious.”

The wise old woman smiled, thought about it, nodded and asked, “So, shall I order some cabbage matzah for next year?”

“No,” laughed the rabbi. “Never again!”

Mark Binder is the author of The Misadventures of Rabbi Kibbitz and Mrs. Chaipul, Matzah Misugas, and many other “Life in Chelm” stories. Visit his website at markbinderbooks.com.

* * *

Reb Stein’s Kroyt Matzah

Grind one large dried cabbage very fine.
Stir in just enough water, so it forms a gruel-like slurry.
No salt. No yeast!
Spread it thickly with a trowel on a baking sheet.
Bake in a really hot oven until crisp but not black.
Serve with cabbage butter, chopped cabbage livers (don’t ask) and cabbage jam.
Enjoy with friends and family.

Pyramids on the Mind

An image from the author’s 1941 Passover Haggadah by Saul Raskin.

Although they are not specifically mentioned in either the Haggadah or in the Torah, Egyptian pyramids have come to be associated with the Pesach story. That many modern Haggadot include illustrations of the pyramids points to how these structures play a key role in our collective memory.

At the Pesach seder, we say, “tze u l’mad,” “go out and learn.” In A Haggadah Happening, Rabbi Shlomo Riskin explains the idea as, “make sure your learning accompanies you wherever you go.” So what better way is there to appreciate the Hebrew slaves’ hardships than to visually present them by tangible symbols, such as the items on the seder plate, as well as the Four Sons, songs like “Ehad Mi Yodaya” (“Who Knows One”) and, of course, the pyramids?

But what specifically drew the Haggadah compilers to the pyramids? First of all, for a period of time, the Hebrews did live in Egypt. Thus, in Exodus, Chapter 5, we read about their involvement in Egyptian construction, where they are portrayed primarily as Egyptian brick-makers, not as builders: “‘Ye shall no more give the people straw to make brick, as heretofore. Let them go and gather straw for themselves.’ And the taskmasters of the people went out, and their officers, and they spoke to the people, saying: ‘Thus saith Pharaoh: “I will not give you straw.”’ So the people were scattered abroad throughout all the land of Egypt to gather stubble for straw. And the taskmasters were urgent, saying: ‘Fulfil your work, your daily task, as when there was straw.’”

Archeologists maintain that, in antiquity, Egyptian homes were constructed from mud bricks. Pyramids, however, were reportedly built of quarried, hewn stone and mud bricks. So, the more persuasive answer as to why modern Jews include pyramids in their Haggadot seems to be the pyramids’ sheer durability. That there are extant pyramids carries tremendous weight when retelling the story of the Hebrews’ time in Egypt – it connects us to our past.

Furthermore, that pyramids are still viewable is not a chance happening, apparently. According to freelance science writer Dr. Craig Freudenrich, the pharaohs built the pyramids knowing that the pyramid, with its square base and four equilateral triangular sides, is “the most structurally stable shape for projects involving large amounts of stone or masonry.”

Moreover, Donald Redford, a professor at Penn State University, reports that the ancient Egyptians probably chose that distinctive form for their pharaohs’ tombs because of their solar religion. The Egyptian sun god Ra, considered the father of all pharaohs, was said to have created himself from a pyramid-shaped mound of earth before creating all the other gods. The pyramid’s shape is thought to have symbolized the sun’s rays.

The shape of the pyramids was carefully chosen to reflect underlying aspects of divine unity. The pyramid has four faces: three faces to the heavens and one face to the earth. Architecture-by-astronomy was common in the ancient world, says archeoastronomer Giulio Magli. The Great Pyramid of Giza, for example, is aligned with amazing precision along the compass points, which would have required the use of the stars as reference points.

Three pyramids were built at Giza, and many smaller pyramids were constructed around the Nile Valley. The tallest of the Great Pyramids reaches nearly 500 feet into the sky and spans an area greater than 13 acres.

What is truly startling is that, with no connection to Egypt, other ancient cultures built pyramids in such far away places as Latin America and in what is, today, southern Illinois, in the United States. Like the ancient Egyptians, these other cultures understood the power and sway the pyramid structure had over the general population. According to history.com editors: “The Americas actually contain more pyramid structures than the rest of the planet combined. Civilizations like the Olmec, Maya, Aztec and Inca all built pyramids to house their deities, as well as to bury their kings. In many of their great city-states, temple-pyramids formed the centre of public life and were the site of holy rituals, including human sacrifice.”

While Egyptian pyramids are closely connected to the sun, Peruvian pyramids were considered to be replicas of mountains; they were thought to possess all the powers the mountains themselves possessed.

Twenty minutes away from St. Louis, Mo., are the remains of the United States’ first high-rises. They are more than 850 years old, constructed by the Cahokia Indians of Illinois. At 5,000 square feet, the house of the great chief or high priest (or another type of leader, since we really don’t know) was the most impressive of all the buildings. From the flat top of this colossus, with a footprint of 14 acres, it is larger at its base than the Great Pyramid of Khufu, Egypt’s largest.

So important is the pyramid as a symbol that it was used on the U.S. one dollar bill. According to the bill’s designer, the pyramid was used because it “signifies strength and duration … a new order of the ages.”

According to Bill Ellis, a professor emeritus of American studies at Penn State, “The pyramid was seen as the kind of human structure that lasted out the ages.” He said America’s Founding Fathers wanted the country to last as long as the pyramid – though the pyramid didn’t show up on the dollar bill until 1935, when Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s administration added them. “New order” is printed in Latin, under the pyramid, and historians say this refers to the birth of a new country and FDR liked the way it synced with his New Deal program.

Whether, in fact, the Hebrew slaves actually built the Egyptian pyramids is of secondary importance, as so many freedom struggles have been based on the tale that the Hebrews had to construct these mammoth buildings until they fled the slavery of Egypt.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.

When we unmask matzah

(photo from pngkey.com)

Imagine that you are sitting at your kitchen table, sewing masks for your family so that you can go outside. There are no more masks left in stock in any store near you so you are left to make them on your own. Suddenly, as you attach a button to the fabric, you hear loud shouting outside. You run to your door and cautiously peek out to see what has caused all the uproar.

You are confronted by an extraordinary sight: people are filling the streets, singing, dancing and embracing. You put on your unfinished mask and venture a little closer, but still six feet away, and ask one of the revelers what happened. She replies: “They found a cure for coronavirus. It is going to be available immediately. Everyone who is sick will immediately recover, and a vaccine will protect the rest of us.”

You stuff your half-finished mask into your pocket and join the revelry, rejoicing that the coronavirus nightmare has come to an end.

When you come back into your home the next day, you carefully place your mask on the mantel. In later years, when visitors ask why you have a piece of fabric with one button and a rubber band featured prominently in your living room, you tell them your story of how you found out that you were saved from the coronavirus pandemic, and how the fear and anxiety completely dissolved. Every time you look at that piece of fabric, you remember that your situation can change in an instant, that fear and loss can be replaced by comfort and hope.

This story may seem like wishful thinking, but it is the story we tell at our seder every Passover. Our ancestors were slaves, oppressed and fearful. They suffered and thought their suffering would never end. And then everything changed.

We recite at the seder: “This matzah – why do we eat it? To remind ourselves that, even before the dough of our ancestors in Egypt had time to rise and become leavened, the King of Kings, the Holy One Blessed be He, was revealed and redeemed them.” In less than the time it would take to bake a loaf of bread, our ancestors’ lives were totally transformed. The mightiest empire in the world was defeated by the slaves’ G-d. They became free people, about to leave their land of oppression for their own land. The bread that they had started baking in captivity became the bread that they would always associate with their liberation.

We can relate to this experience of life-altering moments in our personal lives. Think of a moment when you received a phone call or met someone and your life immediately changed. Sometimes, yes, the phone call or encounter brought sorrow or pain. But, sometimes, it brought new opportunities for joy or freedom that you never expected, and your life was never the same. Maybe, the day after despairing you would ever find a soulmate, you met the person with whom you would spend the rest of your life. Or perhaps you were at a professional crossroads and an opportunity came your way out of the blue.

Of course, the mask sitting on your mantel is not a simple thing to contemplate. It invites much more than joy. Your thoughts are so complex when you look at it. On one hand, it symbolizes recovery and deliverance and, sometimes, when asked about it, you tell about the magical moment when you learned that a cure had been found. But, other times, you recall the dark days of the virus, the many people we lost, the overwhelmed emergency rooms, our crumbled illusions that our technological competence could protect us from epidemic.

The matzah, too, is complex. The Talmud, in Pesachim, suggests that matzah is called lechem oni because it is bread that invites much discussion: “lechem she’onim alav devarim harbeh,” “bread about which we answer many things.” There is so much to say about it because it brings up so many conflicting thoughts and emotions. It reminds us of our slavery in Egypt, when we had no control over what happened to us or to the people we loved. And it also reminds us that our lives can turn around in an instant, in less than the space of time that it takes for dough to rise. It is at once both liberating and deeply unsettling. It gives us hope and it frightens us. It forces us to acknowledge that we have but an illusion of control.

At our Pesach seder, we model to the next generation how to respond to a world that is beyond our control. We try to create structure and order (seder). We acknowledge our vulnerability (“ha lachma anya” – “this is the bread of our affliction”). We help others in need, feeding them and including them at our table (“kol difchin yetei veyechol” – “all who are in need, come eat with us”).

We fight against oppression (the episode of the five rabbis in Bnei Brak). We express gratitude for all the good we have in our lives (“Dayenu”). We delve deeply into these questions and reaffirm the possibility of redemption (“and, even if we are all wise, it is still incumbent upon us to tell the story”) and share our wisdom with our children (“vehigadeta l’vincha” – “and you shall tell your children”).

We commit ourselves to building a redeemed world (“l’shana haba’ah beyerushalayim” – “next year in Jerusalem”). And, as we eat our matzah, we acknowledge with faith and humility, that we never know what will come next.

Aliza Sperling teaches Talmud at the Yeshivat Maharat/Yeshiva Chovevei Torah Beit Midrash Program and directs Svivah’s HerTorah, an inclusive and open women’s learning community. She serves as a Shalom Hartman Institute research fellow and a Wexner faculty member, and articles by Sperling and other institute scholars can be found at shalomhartman.org. This article was originally published on blogs.timesofisrael.com.

JI makes for regal crown

Aaron Dewitt put the Feb. 12 issue of the Jewish Independent to good use on Purim – after reading it from cover to cover, we trust. (photo by Rahel Halabe)