Life – Page 2

Unique Cochin rituals

Cochin Jews at the 450th year celebration of the Paradesi synagogue, December 2017. (photo by Shalva Weil)

A study on the Purim traditions of the Cochin Jewish community by Prof. Shalva Weil of Hebrew University was published in the Journal of Modern Jewish Studies. It examines the historical and cultural significance of effigies in Purim celebrations among Cochin Jews, tracing their evolution from the 16th century to the modern day.

The Cochin Jewish community, numbering no more than 2,400 at its peak in 1948, lived in harmony with their Hindu, Christian and Muslim neighbours. Unlike other Jewish communities, they never experienced antisemitism in India, except during the Portuguese conquest of the 16th century. Their unique Purim celebrations featured role reversals that symbolically challenged societal hierarchies based on caste, religion and gender. This inversion of power structures was most vividly expressed through the construction and destruction of effigies representing adversaries, a practice embedded in the communal and ritualistic fabric of Cochin Jewry.

By the 20th century, Cochin Jews increasingly aligned themselves with the global Jewish community. Following the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948, the majority of Cochin Jews made aliyah by 1954, leaving behind only a small number of Paradesi and Malabar Jews scattered across the state of Kerala. The once-thriving Cochin Jewish community on the Malabar Coast is nearly extinct, and traditional Purim celebrations have all but disappeared. With only one Paradesi Jew remaining there and a handful in other former Cochin Jewish locations, synagogue services now rely on visiting Jewish tourists.

In stark contrast, in Israel, where an estimated 15,000 descendants of Cochin Jews now reside, Purim is celebrated in ways that reflect broader Jewish and Western cultural traditions. Children dress up as superheroes, soldiers and biblical figures; they participate in school parties and exchange hamantashen. Observant Jews continue to read the Book of Esther in synagogue and hold festive meals, incorporating their heritage into mainstream Jewish customs.

Weil, who has been awarded this year’s Yakir Yerushalayim honour as a distinguished citizen of Jerusalem due to her lifelong research into ethnicity and gender, highlights in her research the transition of Cochin Jewry from a localized, community-bound identity to an integrated and globalized Jewish experience. While their presence in India has nearly vanished, the legacy of Cochin Jews continues to thrive in Israel and beyond.

– Courtesy Hebrew University

Home & Garden thoughts

Moving into our new condo

Living in a condominium steps away from the Seawall and the marina is surreal. (photo from flickr.com/photos/nuntz)

Nobody would deny that the concept of a new home is exhilarating. It’s the packing up a lifetime of belongings, and having to sell and give away a plethora of things that plunges you into ice-cold reality. And let’s not forget the joys of the actual move.

A therapist once advised me to “get comfortable with uncertainty.” Hmmm. That’s like saying, “Learn to enjoy having hot oil poured down your back.” I think not. Much as I strive to embrace that pithy advice (and, on occasion, even succeed), I am just not cut out for it. You can only imagine how well I did with our recent move to a new condo.

It’s been almost a month and I still can’t find my passport or oven mitts. Not that I’m planning to travel anytime soon. But I would like to cook.

Without exaggeration, I packed at least 75 boxes and countless bags of belongings to shlep from our two-bedroom apartment to our new place. And lest you assume that we did what most retirees do and downsized – our collective wisdom ushered us into a bigger space. It is a condo with a kitchen large enough to land an aircraft carrier – which has always been a dream of mine (the size, not the aircraft carrier part). But the dream turned into a miniature nightmare when we moved in and I realized that I had next to no general storage space. Hall closet? Big enough to house a miniature turtle. Bathroom cupboards? Spacious enough for an extra roll of toilet paper and some air freshener. But I do have my humongous kitchen, and you can bet that I plan to cook and bake till the cows come home.

If I’ve learned nothing else, I’ve learned that you can’t have it all. You prioritize and maybe get 80% of what you originally wanted. Then, you just have to swallow the 20% and move forward. And get creative. Despite my apparent whining, I am truly feeling blessed and in awe of where we live now. We are mere steps from the Seawall and the marina, flanked by gorgeous condos. We are forced to peer daily at the spectacular mountains and sparkling lights of downtown. I keep asking myself, “Is this really my new neighbourhood?” When I come home and walk down the hall to our place, I feel like I’m in a hotel. Surreal, to say the least.

I had always been fiercely protective of our rental apartment and South Granville – we had great neighbours, little coffee shops where I was a regular, we were walking distance to grocery stores, drugstores, restaurants and the beach. Having lived in that apartment building for 37 years, I was their longest tenant. It was really all I knew. I had not lived in a house since I left home in 1974 to go away to university. Owning a home was always something I aspired to do. Until it became an unreachable reality. Being a single librarian until I was 53, owning a home was a pipe dream.

Then, I married, and we enjoyed our little love nest until October 2023, when we learned that our building (along with half the neighbourhood) was going to be torn down so high-rises could be built. Thank you, Broadway Plan! At first, I freaked out. And then, I started packing. I knew not where we would end up, but the writing was on the wall. Actually, the first indicator was in the summer of 2023, when men started hammering little metal plaques on the trees in our area and spray-painting the sidewalks. It was cryptic, for sure, but the mystery didn’t last long.

In February 2024, the company hired to “transition” renters into new homes held a Zoom meeting with all the tenants in our building. No promises were made, but the starkness of the facts hit us like ice water in the face. Right of first refusal. Financial compensation. Rent top-up. Blah, blah, blah. The one phrase that stuck with me though was TRPP – Tenant Relocation and Protection Policy. Luckily, tenants do have some protection, but it doesn’t solve the fundamental issue of unaffordable housing that plagues this city.

Time passed, we considered our options, I fretted over everything. It was a maelstrom of emotions. It took me awhile to wrap my head around the possibility that buying something could actually be within reach. But, events collaborated, luck joined the party, I took my head out of my nether regions, and, voilà, the unimaginable happened! We bought a condo!

Now, I am trying to “get comfortable with uncertainty” and change (as though change is a dirty word). I got my first test when I figured out that my lovely oak desk, which my beloved father, alav ha-shalom, bought me, wouldn’t fit in our condo. Our second bedroom has a Murphy bed and, well, let’s just say that my oak desk is the size of a blue whale. Living in that big river in Egypt (denial), I hoped against hope that something would happen and either the desk or the bed would miraculously shrink overnight. Not a chance. So, I paid movers to move the desk into the condo and, two weeks later, I paid them to move it to the SPCA Thrift Store. And, while I tried to heed my late father’s advice to “cry over people, not things,” I failed miserably. I had a full-on, deep-dish cry-fest after dropping off the desk. All I could do on my drive home was to talk to my father’s spirit and tell him I love him, and tell him how much I miss him, and how much it meant to me that he got that desk for me specially.

I had to do something to honour my father. So, I decided to toast him. Knowing he liked Cutty Sark Scotch, I spent the next hour driving to three different liquor stores to find it, and was finally successful. It was only then that a sense of calm came over me. Maybe it was the Scotch. Maybe it was my dad telling me it was OK to cry over him. Whatever it was, the desk is now in its new home. And so am I. And both of us are very happy.

And I finally have a big kitchen, in-suite laundry, hardwood floors and I don’t face south.

Shelley Civkin, aka the Accidental Balabusta, is a happily retired librarian and communications officer. For 17 years, she wrote a weekly book review column for the Richmond Review. She’s currently a freelance writer and volunteer.

Costumed counting fun

Ten Purim Bears: A Counting Book for Purim introduces kids to Purim, numbers 1-10.

Fans of Once a Bear: A Counting Book by Ron Atlas (words) and Zach Horvath (illustrations) will be happy to find that their bear friends have returned – this time, in Ten Purim Bears: A Counting Book for Purim. Both 24-page board books are published by the Collective Book Studio, which has produced several well-written and -designed books reviewed by the Independent.

Ten Purim Bears features all the same adorable bear characters as the first book, and follows the same format. Each scene spreads over two pages, with the numbers one through 10 written out on top and appearing numerically on the bottom, as borders. In the middle are 10 chairs, the first scene with mostly empty chairs, except for the one on the far left, where sits a baseball-costumed bear wondering, “Where is everyone?” As we progress through the story, we get more bear bums on seats, each dressed in a different costume. As each new bear enters, the new number of bears is highlighted in white on both the top and bottom borders.

image - Adi, bear #6, takes her seat in Ten Purim Bears: A Counting Book for Purim by Ron Atlas (words) and Zach Horvath (illustrations), published by the Collective Book Studio — Adi, bear #6, takes her seat in Ten Purim Bears: A Counting Book for Purim by Ron Atlas (words) and Zach Horvath (illustrations), published by the Collective Book Studio.

Directed to readers up to 6 years old, their reader-helpers will enjoy a laugh or two, as well. For example, Flor, “who lives next door,” sits down and says, “I’m saving a seat for my friend.” Turning the page, Pete, “from down the street,” has sat next to Flor, saying: “I’m the friend.” I hear him doing it in a deadpan voice and it makes me chuckle every time.

There are two short narratives for each scene – one introducing the next bear and the bears talking among themselves. It’s a nice touch, kind of like having a parent narrator and then the kids’ views on things. As we are told by the narrator that Adi’s sister, Mandy, “brought some sweets – lots and lots of Purim treats,” we see Mandy handing them out: “There’s some for everyone,” she says. “Thank you,” says her sister. The hamantaschen that Amari Bear baked to share with his friends are his favourite, he says, while Adi agrees, “Yum!”

Kids learns not only how to count, but a bit about Purim and its traditions. Sharing, politeness and a sense of community are encouraged. As is a sense of fun, with the various costumes. And the arts! The bears have all gathered to watch a Purim spiel, of course. And we get to see a scene of the play, with quadruple-threat performers – acting, dancing, singing and playing instruments – looking like they are having a good time. The 10-bear audience certainly is.

Ten Purim Bears and Once a Bear can be purchased at thecollectivebook.studio. Check out the publisher’s website further when you’re there, as there will no doubt be another book or two you’ll want to add to your collection.

Hanukkah as a messy middle

Hanukkah reminds us that miracles are possible and that seemingly unwinnable wars can be won. But it also holds lessons about partial victories, imperfect heroes and incomplete belonging.

We tell the story of Hanukkah, in our liturgy and in our songs and in the rituals we use to celebrate the holiday, as the decisive end of a frightening conflict: the good guys win, the bad guys lose, and the Temple is rededicated with Divine imprimatur.

But that is not the full picture of how Hanukkah was experienced in its day: alongside the joy and triumph, there was loss, uncertainty and ongoing strife. This reality of Hanukkah as the messy middle holds lessons of perseverance for us today as we celebrate the holiday while the state of Israel fights a war that could last a long time, and whose outcome is unknown.

Leading up to the victory of Hanukkah, Jews fought one another, heroes died and families mourned, and, as the martyrdom narrative of Hannah and her seven sons describes, civilians made profound sacrifices. It is easy to envision the experiences of people waiting for loved ones to return, of everyday acts of survival and kindness, of the fear experienced by individuals, families and communities. Even the victory of Hanukkah must have been tinged with deep loss.

What’s more, the Hanukkah victory did not end the war between the Seleucid-Greeks and the Maccabees: military campaigns continued for years thereafter. Statecraft was employed as alliances were made and broken; communities dedicated monuments to their fallen heroes, and even the great Judah the Maccabee died in battle. In short, Hanukkah did not decisively conclude the saga. Rather, it marked a crucial milestone amid continued sacrifice and uncertainty about the future. And yet, the Jewish leadership established the holiday to hail a crucial milestone.

image - “The Story of Hanukkah,” by Ori Sherman, 1985 — “The Story of Hanukkah,” by Ori Sherman, 1985. *(from thecollector.com)*

The Book of Maccabees describes a Jewish civil war in relation to Hanukkah. But that does not fully characterize the story of the Judean state that emerged after the war. True, that state (164 – 63 BCE) was rife with intra-Jewish bickering and general divisiveness, whether political, social or religious. However, the majority of Jews in the second and first century BCE did not belong to any sect.

Moreover, Jews who lived in vibrant communities outside of the land of Israel still viewed themselves as the close kin of Jews who lived in the land of Israel: identifying themselves as Jewish by observing Shabbat and the holidays, circumcising their baby boys, keeping dietary laws, and gathering regularly in synagogues to read and interpret their scriptural traditions. What bound all these Jews together was more powerful than what divided them.

The character of Hanukkah as we observe it was most explicitly shaped by a rabbinic establishment living hundreds of years after the Hasmonean period. And though the original Hasmoneans (the Maccabees) were the heroes of Hanukkah, these later rabbis viewed them as flawed. After all, the priestly Hasmoneans took over the throne, combining the priestly and monarchic functions in a way that denied the Davidic dynasty and compromised the separation of religious and political powers. Nonetheless, the courage of the Maccabees continues to inspire the collective Jewish imagination. This conveys the complicated truth that there are no perfect heroes. The people who stand up, and who are willing to take risks and make sacrifices, become the instruments of salvation – regardless of whether the people in their time, or the later sages, agree with all that they stand for.

These three lessons of the Hanukkah story should inform our celebration this year, at the same time as the realities of the war in Israel.

First, let’s appreciate partial redemptions. This includes the reunions that have happened of hostages with their families and the progress made by the Israel Defence Forces in eradicating Hamas. Acknowledging partial victories becomes a source of gratitude, and it equips us with resilience as we forge ahead, despite uncertainty and difficulty.

Second, let’s take seriously the gains we have made in our commitment to Jewish peoplehood. Oct. 7 has drawn the majority of Jews together, despite significant differences among us. We must try to sustain this sense of Jewish peoplehood without imagining that our disagreements will disappear.

And third, let’s accept the current need and ability to work even with flawed leadership. Many who spent the year before Oct. 7 protesting Israel’s current administration have chosen to prioritize the war effort, to focus on defeating Hamas and bringing our hostages home.

As we continue to navigate the messy middle of today’s conflict, may the more complex aspects of Hanukkah and its aftermath inspire within us the hope and faith we need to persevere as a people.

Dr. Elana Stein Hain is rosh beit midrash and a senior research fellow at the Shalom Hartman Institute of North America. To read more from institute scholars, visit hartman.org.il.

A gift of light in winter

Thanks to Doodle the village orphan, the people of Chelm celebrated Hanukkah even during “The Long Winter of the Cabbage.” (image from reformjudaism.org)

In literature, a cabbage might be a symbol for anything and everything disagreeable. In the village of Chelm, however, a cabbage is sometimes just a cabbage.

They called it “The Long Winter of the Cabbage” and, in the village of Chelm, few people were happy. There was a food shortage – all there was to eat was cabbage. Cabbage for breakfast, cabbage for lunch, and cabbage for dinner. No one was looking forward to Hanukkah.

As Rabbi Kibbitz was heard to mutter, “A diet of cabbage may sustain, but it doesn’t make you want to sing with joy.”

Except for young Doodle, the village orphan, who honestly and truly loved cabbage, and reveled in every bite. Doodle, however, had learned to keep his appreciation for all things brassica to himself. When everyone else is miserable, they really don’t want to hear someone appreciate the things they dread.

In previous years, the villagers held a Hanukkah party in the social hall, lighting candles and then dancing, and complaining about Mrs. Chaipul’s lethal latkes.

But, this winter, the thought of Mrs. Chaipul’s latkes made from cabbage made everyone shudder. So, the Hanukkah party was canceled.

“It’s the weather,” Mrs. Chaipul said. “Too cold. Too wet. Too much snow. Too much ice. Too much wind.”

“I’ll say there’s too much wind!” said Reb Cantor, the merchant, before he withered under Mrs. Chaipul’s glare.

Reb Cantor himself was particularly unhappy. Recently, the villagers of Chelm had gotten into the habit of buying and giving gifts to each other to celebrate Hanukkah.

“They’re not Christmas presents,” explained little Shemini Schlemiel, who had come up with the idea. “They’re Hanukkah gifts!”

The problem with these Hanukkah gifts was that they had become a large part of Reb Cantor’s business. The merchant discussed this at great length with his friend Rabbi Yohon Abrahms, the school teacher, but their cabbage-addled brains devised no brilliant solution. Not even a foolish solution.

When the first night of Hanukkah arrived, with a cold wind and rain mixed with snow, that turned to muddy slush in the darkened streets, the villagers of Chelm stayed home. They shivered in front of their fires. They poked at their cabbage stews and their cabbage briskets (don’t ask).

Everyone wanted to complain, especially the children, who had become accustomed to getting presents, but nobody had the energy.

Except young Doodle, the village orphan, who had already finished a bowl of Mrs. Levitsky’s sweet and sour cabbage soup, and was about to ask for more, when he noticed the dark mood in the Levitsky house.

“What’s wrong?” Doodle asked.

“Nothing,” Martin Levitsky, the synagogue’s caretaker, said, glumly. “I’m tired of cabbage.”

“I think I’ll go to bed early,” Chaya Levitsky said, taking off her apron. “Help yourself to as much cabbage as you want.”

“But we haven’t lit the Hanukkah candles yet,” Doodle said.

“Meh.” Both Levitskys shrugged, and began making their way to their bedroom. “You do it, Doodle. We’re going to sleep.”

Now Doodle was really worried.

He ran to the window, looked outside, and saw that no other houses in the village had candles lit in their windows.

“Not again,” Doodle whispered. It was the time of year. Sometimes the cold and the dark…. Was everyone just too tired of cabbage to celebrate?

“Wait!” Doodle shouted.

This startled the Levitskys, who stopped in their tracks.

“You want us to have a heart attack, Doodle?” Reb Levitsky asked.

“No, I want you to wait two minutes while I light the Hanukkah candles.”

“All right.” Mrs. Levitsky sighed. “Go. Go already.”

Doodle ran to the cabinet and brought down the Hanukkah menorah. He set two candles, and began to sing the blessings.

At first, the Levitskys stayed quiet, but soon they began to hum.

When Doodle used the lit shammos to set the second candle’s taper alight, the Levitskys joined him.

And then, together, they all sang the words of the Shehecheyanu, giving thanks simply for being alive.

Moving quickly but carefully, Doodle set the lit menorah in the front window of the Levitskys’ house.

At that very moment, Reb Cantor the merchant happened to look out his window. As did the entire Schlemiel family.

So did Rabbi Kibbitz and Mrs. Chaipul, who had been in the middle of a three-way argument with Rabbi Yohan Abrahms. All three forgot what they had been fighting about.

Through the rain and the sleet, everyone in the village of Chelm saw the two lights burning in the Levitskys’ window.

They all fell silent. They all ran to their cupboards and shelves, got their hanukkiyahs, said or sang the blessings, and lit the candles.

Soon, there were bright lights burning in the windows of every home.

Even though it was still raining and snowing, and all there was to eat was cabbage, those small flames made everyone feel warmer. Songs were sung, children began to spin dreidels, gambling for cabbage, and a few brave souls tried to make cabbage latkes, but without much success.

That year in the village Chelm, there were no presents. The lights in the windows were gifts enough.

Izzy Abrahmson is a pen name for storyteller Mark Binder. To find out more about ‘The Long Winter of the Cabbage,’ Mrs. Chaipul and Doodle, read The Council of Wise Women. This new novel for adults is available in print, ebook and audiobook. For purchase links, visit bit.ly/council-book.

Jewish Mexican food excites

Paletas can be made in many flavours. Sabor Judío includes a recipe that uses Manischewitz wine. (photo by Ilan Rabchinskey)

The minute I saw the cover, I wanted to try some of the recipes in Sabor Judío: The Jewish Mexican Cookbook by Ilan Stavans and Margaret E. Boyle. Not only did I learn how to make some very tasty food, but I learned a bit about the Jewish community in Mexico and its history.

Published by the University of North Carolina Press, with hunger-inducing colour photographs by Ilan Rabchinskey, and written by two Jewish Mexican scholars (now living in the United States), Sabor Judío was a cultural experience for me, never having been to Mexico before and only ever having made a basic burrito at home. Of course, I’ve eaten at many Mexican restaurants over the years, but Sabor Judío features recipes you won’t necessarily find in a restaurant here in Vancouver, or even in Canada, though local Jewish community members with Mexican roots might make some of these dishes at home.

There were two very important inspirations for Sabor Judío.

One was Stavans’ grandmother, Bobe Miriam, whose recipe book, written in a mix of Yiddish and Spanish, was started in the 1920s, after she immigrated to Mexico from Poland. It evolved over decades, as she figured out what worked and what didn’t, and as ingredients changed. The notebook “wasn’t just about cooking; it was also a time capsule that chronicled, through dishes, the Jewish family’s process of assimilation into Mexico and the way La Comunidad, as the Jewish Mexican community is known, showcases its personality to the world.”

The other was Boyle’s great-grandmother, Baba Malka, also a Polish immigrant to Mexico: “While Baba Malka was still actively cooking, her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren took turns observing and documenting her work in the kitchen in Mexico City, filling the notebook’s pages with notes and adaptations in Spanish, Hebrew and English as the family generations expanded across Mexico and into the United States.”

The recipes in Sabor Judío are “dishes collected from grandmothers and other beloved home cooks, professional chefs and bakers, and a variety of historical sources,” writes cookbook author Leah Koenig in the preface. Even she came across ingredients she had never used before. “I learned the hard way that nopales (cactus paddles) should always be handled wearing gloves, lest the prickly spines leave your hands stinging for the rest of the day.”

The recipe for Cactus Tomato Salad does include a note about the proper handling of cactus leaves. But, not sure of where I could buy cactus here, I inadvertently saved myself the trouble of removing the spines, boiling the cactus and cutting it into 1/4-inch pieces by buying a jar of cactus that was already prepared in that way. This substantially eased the process of making this salad, which was very good, though I’m sure fresh cactus would have made it even better.

I chose what to make from Sabor Judío by looking at what the cookbook authors recommended as a festive Hanukkah meal, which includes the Cactus Tomato Salad. I had already singled out the Falafel Taquitos because I liked the idea of mixing Mexican and Middle Eastern flavours. In the end, there was a bit of a disconnect for me between the taste of the falafel centre and that of the corn tortilla shell. In eating leftovers the next day, I greatly enhanced the enjoyment of this dish by adding some fresh-cut tomatoes and cucumber.

I also had already eyed Agua de Horchata because of the first sentence in its description, which says that the rice-milk drink – which is believed to have 11th-century North African origins – “accompanies a good Mexican Jewish meal.” I was very pleased with how it turned out. I will definitely make it again.

The Latkes con Mole were as labour-intensive (grating potatoes and onion) and delicious as other latkes I’ve had, and I would happily swap out my usual apple sauce every so often for mole and crumbled queso fresco, even though it takes a lot of time to make mole.

I tried a second fried item, it being for Hanukkah and all, and the Sor Juana’s Ricotta Buñuelos were so good, if that’s a thing. The anise really made them pop, and I ate way too many.

Lastly, knowing how much I like paletas, I couldn’t resist making the frozen treats using Manischewitz. The wine most definitely tastes better frozen, after being steeped in cinnamon, cloves and orange.

There are other Hanukkah – Janucá – meals, as well as suggested menus for other Jewish holidays. In total, there are about 100 recipes in Sabor Judío, including desserts. One thing you’ll learn from this cookbook is that the Canadian and Mexican concepts of breakfast, lunch and dinner differ somewhat. You’ll learn some Spanish, some history and more. You’ll be introduced to some new-to-you ingredients and ways to combine those ingredients.

As Stavans and Boyle wish readers at the end of their book’s introduction, perfectly capturing the fusions taking place throughout it: “¡Buen provecho! Mit a gutn apetit! Kome kon gana!” Enjoy your meal(s).

FALAFEL TAQUITOS
(serves 6; prep takes 30 minutes plus overnight soaking and a 30-minute chilling time; 20 minutes to bake)

for the taquitos:
1/2 lb dried chickpeas, soaked overnight in water, then rinsed and drained
1/2 medium yellow onion, roughly chopped
2 tbsp fresh parsley, roughly chopped
2 tbsp cilantro, roughly chopped
2 medium garlic cloves, roughly chopped
1 tsp kosher salt, plus more as needed
1 tsp ground cumin
1/2 tsp ground coriander
1/8 tsp cayenne
vegetable oil, for brushing
12 (6-inch) corn tortillas

for the tahini sauce:
1/2 cup well-stirred tahini
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
1/4 cup cold water

1. Add the chickpeas to a food processor bowl along with the onion, parsley, cilantro, garlic, salt, cumin, coriander and cayenne. Pulse, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed until a textured paste forms. Taste and add more salt, if needed. Transfer to a bowl and refrigerate the mixture for 30 minutes.

2. Heat the oven to 400˚F and brush a 9-by-13-inch baking dish with about 1 tablespoon of oil. Lay one tortilla on a flat surface and place a scant 1/4 cup of the filling along one edge, nudging it into a line. Roll up the tortilla tightly and place it seam-side down in the prepared backing dish. Repeat the process with the remaining tortillas and filling.

3. Brush the tops of the tortillas with more oil and bake until crispy and golden, 15-20 minutes. Meanwhile, whisk together the tahini, lemon juice and water. Serve the taquitos hot, drizzled with tahini sauce.

AGUA DE HORCHATA
(serves 8-10; prep takes 10 minutes, plus overnight soaking and a 4-hour chilling time)

2 cups long-grain white rice, rinsed well and drained
1 cinnamon stick
6 cups room-temperature water, divided, plus more as needed
3/4 cup granulated sugar
2 cups whole milk
2 tsp vanilla extract
ice, for serving (optional)

1. Place the rice and cinnamon stick in a large glass bowl and add 4 cups of the water. Cover the bowl and let the mixture soak overnight at room temperature (at least 8 hours).

2. Pour the soaked rice mixture into a high-powered blender along with the sugar and blend until smooth. (You can tear the cinnamon stick into smaller pieces to facilitate its blending.) Pour the mixture through a fine mesh sieve into a large wide-mouth pitcher, stirring and pressing the mixture with a spoon, if needed, to help the liquid pass through the sieve. (Discard any remaining solids.)

3. Whisk in the milk, the remaining 2 cups of water, and vanilla. Cover the pitcher and chill the horchata in the refrigerator until cold, at least 4 hours. (The mixture will continue to thicken as it chills.)

4. Just before serving, stir the horchata well and pour into glasses (over ice, if desired). If the horchata gets too thick, you can thin it with a little more water.

SOR JUANA’S RICOTTA BUÑUELOS
(makes 10-15 fritters; prep takes 40 minutes, plus 1-hour resting time; 30 minutes to cook)

1 cup ricotta cheese
6 egg yolks
1/4 cup granulated sugar, plus more for serving
2 1/2 tsp ground anise
3 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for rolling
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
vegetable oil, for frying
jam, for serving

1. Combine the ricotta, egg yolks, sugar and ground anise in the bowl of a stand mixer and beat on low until combined. Whisk together the flour and baking powder in a medium-sized bowl.

2. Add the flour mixture to the ricotta mixture in stages, beating on low and scraping down the sides of the bowl as necessary, until a thick and sticky dough forms. Cover the mixing bowl and let rest at room temperature for 1 hour.

3. On a large, floured work surface using a floured rolling pin, roll out the dough to a 1/8-inch thickness. Use a sharp knife and a plate or bowl with a 4-to-5-inch diameter to cut out circles. Gather the scraps and repeat the rolling and cutting process, if desired.

4. Heat 1/4 inch of oil in a medium frying pan set over medium heat until it reaches 350˚F on a digital thermometer, and line a large baking sheet with paper towels. Working with one circle of dough at a time, slip it into the hot oil and fry, turning once, until puffed and golden, 30 to 60 seconds per side.

5. Transfer the fritters to the paper towels to drain and cool slightly. Serve warm, sprinkled with more sugar or dolloped with jam.

PALETAS MANISCHEWITZ
(makes 6; prep takes 40 minutes; freeze 5 hours)

1 (750-ml) bottle Manischewitz sweet red wine
3 wide strips orange peel
4 whole cloves
1 cinnamon stick
2 cups water
thinly sliced limes and tangerines (optional)

1. Add the wine, orange peel, cloves and cinnamon stick to a medium saucepan set over medium-high heat. Bring the mixture to a boil, then lower the heat to medium and cook, stirring occasionally, until the liquid reduces to 1 cup, 30-35 minutes. Remove from the heat and let cool, then strain out and discard the spices and orange peel.

2. Stir the water into the strained wine syrup, then divide the mixture evenly among 6 paleta or flat popsicle molds. If desired, add a slice of lime or tangerine into each mold. Freeze until solid, at least 5 hours.

Happy Sukkot 2024!

About the 2024 Rosh Hashanah cover

I came across this Rosh Hashanah greeting card in the 2017 Forward article “The Curious History of Rosh Hashanah Cards in Yiddish” by Rami Neudorfer. The image was copyrighted by the Hebrew Publishing Company, New York, 1909, and the high-resolution version we used for the cover comes from the postcard collection of Prof. Shalom Sabar (emeritus) of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

“The card depicts two eagles in the sky: under the Imperial Eagle of the Russian coat of arms, a group of impoverished, traditionally dressed Russian Jews, carrying their meagre belongings, line Europe’s shore, gazing with hope across the ocean,” wrote Neudorfer. “Waiting for them are their Americanized relatives, whose outstretched arms simultaneously beckon and welcome them to their new home. Above them, an American eagle clutches a banner with a line from Psalms: ‘Shelter us in the shadow of Your wings.’”

Not only did Prof. Sabar provide the image for the cover but he offered further explanation of the card’s meaning. The verse quoted is partially based on Psalms 57:2; the fuller quote is taken from Psalms 17:8 – “Hide me in the shadow of Your wings.” In the illustration, the quote is changed to be in the plural: “Hide us in the shadow of Your wings.” And it appears in this form in the Ashkenazi siddur, where it is part of the Hashkivenu prayer, said Sabar. The full text can be found at sefaria.org.il/sheets/29587?lang=bi, where they translate the phrase as “and cradle us in the shadow of your wings.”

The message of a passage to freedom is not only enhanced by the Psalms quote, but also that the birds depicted are eagles, Sabar added. This is a reference to the liberation of the Jews from Egypt, he said, as in Exodus 19:4 – “You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, and [how] I bore you on eagles’ wings, and I brought you to Me.”

Renewing a commitment to hope

If you were to write a personal “book of life” to express your aspirations for growth in the year ahead, what would its title be? (photo from thisenchantedpixie.org)

In the face of the immense sadness and devastation of the past 11 months, and the suffering that seems to know no bounds, I find it difficult to even register that Elul, the last month on the Jewish calendar, has arrived. But, as the Jewish year inevitably advances, I seek solace and meaning in two practices that have helped me prepare for new years past.

The first is writing my “book title,” for a family ritual we created years ago to facilitate the work of reflection, forgiveness and imagination that are core to themes of the High Holidays. The Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur liturgies tie our teshuvah, our annual returning to our best selves, to our desire to be inscribed in a celestial “Book of Life.” Using this image, my family gathers around the Rosh Hashanah lunch table each year to share the titles of our personal “books of life” and to express our aspirations for growth and desires to be held accountable by one another in the year ahead.

The second is to dust off my shofar and sound the first blast, as I will continue to do, in keeping with tradition, each morning of the month of Elul, until the holidays arrive. Each day, I will I close my eyes and coax out the sounds that the shofar has been compared to: Sarah weeping for Isaac, a call to battle, the blasts that signal God’s presence on Mount Sinai, the call of justice that cracks open the hardness of the universe, the hardness in our hearts and in the hearts of our political leaders and awakens in us a renewed sense of purpose and possibility. By doing this, I hope I will be prepared, both physically and spiritually, for the full complement of 100 blasts, short and long, that will sound over the holidays themselves.

In the past, each of these rituals has given me hope, hope that change is possible, that I can do better, that collectively we can do better and that a better future is possible.

This Elul, I am finding it more difficult, as I imagine many of us are, to muster a feeling of hope. Last Elul, we could not have imagined the challenges of the past year: the slaughter of Oct. 7; the long and devastating war in Gaza; the plight of the hostages; the loss of friends and allies; the fractious polarization within the Jewish community; the rise in antisemitism. All of this on top of the many issues we continue to work on globally, from hunger to homelessness to climate change. Hope feels at best elusive; in our most cynical moments, it feels naïve.

Hope requires of us that we allow for the possibility of a variety of better futures, futures that are as yet unexperienced and perhaps even unimaginable. Hope requires that we acknowledge that a catastrophe that may feel imminent is not a forgone conclusion. Hope demands the humility to recognize that we just don’t know what will be, and the audacity to own our role in shaping it. Human imagination, intention and action forge a line between this present and the better future for which we long.

“People often confuse optimism and hope,” said Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, z”l. “They sound similar. But, in fact, they’re very different. Optimism is the belief that things are going to get better. Hope is the belief that, if we work hard enough together, we can make things better. It needs no courage, just a certain naïvety to be an optimist. It needs a great deal of courage to have hope.… And hope is what transforms the human situation.”

In Hope in the Dark, Rebecca Solnit describes a commitment to hope as essential to the work of activism toward social change. She shares example after example of times when the future (now history) unfolded because of the powerful imagination, agency and organizing of people who held on to hope. “Hope locates itself in the premises that we don’t know what will happen,” she writes, “and that in the spaciousness of uncertainty is room to act.”

Elul reminds us that we don’t know what will happen but that we have the tools individually and collectively to shape the future. The practices of reflecting on the year past and imagining the year ahead that are built into the Jewish holiday cycle offer us the “spaciousness of uncertainty” we need that can spark hope and move us to action. I rely on my two Elul rituals to facilitate this process of reflection and imagination. Whether it’s journaling, reading, speaking to a colleague or friend, or listening to music, I’m sure that each of us has tools for creating space for the kind of reflection and imagination that makes hope, and the attendant action it demands, possible. And our hopefulness has the potential to inspire others. We can hold possibility for them when they feel discouraged and they can do the same for us.

Elul reflection pushes us to awaken ourselves to new possibilities even in the face of despair, fatigue, anger and overwhelm. And this awakening of hope makes it possible to act.

I consider my book title as I blow the shofar each morning in Elul. I’m leaning toward making it “Hope.”

Questions for reflection

• What practices or rituals will help awaken you to new possibilities this month and coming year?

• What is your book title for the coming year, and who do you want to share it with?

Rachel Jacoby Rosenfield is chief executive officer of the Shalom Hartman Institute of North America (hartman.org.il). Earlier this month, the Hebrew month of Elul, Olam (“a network of Jewish individuals and organizations committed to global service, international development and humanitarian aid” – olamtogether.org) asked her to share her thoughts as a profoundly challenging year for the Jewish people ended.