There’s nothing like a weekend in Montreal, whether you’re in the mood for a classic bagel, a mouthwatering babka dripping with chocolate, or a heaping smoked meat sandwich from Schwartz’s Deli. Now that Porter Airlines has launched direct daily flights between Vancouver and Montreal, it’s a great time to explore this fabulous city, which oozes with personality, culture, history and great food.
We joined a fast-paced bike tour to see the city’s highlights, pedaling 15 kilometres through green alleyways, busy boulevards and along the Lachine Canal to get a broad overview of Montreal’s history. We rode through the Old Quarter, with its ancient stone buildings, following the canal past factories and warehouses reincarnated into swanky apartments. We puffed up the hill to the base of Mount Royal and zipped back down past the austere buildings of McGill University.
At Place d’Armes, we stopped to gaze at a pair of statues called “The Two Snobs.” On one side, a Francophone woman holds her poodle, looking with contempt at the head office of the Bank of Montreal, a symbol of English power. On the other, an Anglophone holds his pug, looking with similar disdain at the Notre-Dame Basilica, a symbol of the Catholic Church in Quebec. The statues hint loudly at the enduring, simmering tensions between English and French in Montreal.
We escaped the tourist crowds in the Old Quarter by heading to Mile End to join a food and history tour offered by the Museum of Jewish Montreal. Our guide, Avery Monette, a 23-year-old master’s student at Concordia, led us on a gastronomic feast as she described the city’s Jewish origins in 1760. That’s when Jews first arrived in Montreal to work as fur trade merchants. The community stayed small until the 1880s, when pogroms drove Eastern European Jews to the safety of Montreal’s Mile End. Over the next 90 years, it would become the largest Jewish community in Canada.
We bit into a sweet, rich cheese crown from Boulangerie Cheskie, a small kosher bakery in the neighbourhood, and then braved the cold wind to line up outside St-Viateur Bagel, one of Montreal’s two most famous bagel shops. Established in 1957 by Hyman Zeligman and Myer Lewkowicz, the store never closes. Ever. “In April 2023, there was an ice and snowstorm that knocked out all the electricity in the area,” Monette recalled. “Even then, this place was open!”
We strolled along rue Jeanne-Mance in Mile End, where frum families pushed strollers alongside us and a man wearing a shtreimel strode by, headed for the synagogue with his tallit tucked under his arm. The Jewish influence was easily spotted, with most houses having mezuzot on their doors and many with the skeleton of a sukkah in their front yard.
By the 1950s, Jews in Montreal had migrated to the middle class, and many left Mile End for larger homes in Côte Saint-Luc, Hampstead and Côte-des-Neiges. We passed the College Français, once the home of the B’nai Jacob Synagogue, which was known as the Carnegie Hall of cantorial singing in its heyday.
Our Vancouver jackets were feeling pretty inadequate in Montreal weather by the time we arrived at Fairmount Bagel, where the line out the door was even longer than at St-Viateur. Once inside, we were surrounded by garlic, pumpernickel, cranberry and muesli bagels, as well as matzah with sesame, onion and poppy seeds. While none of it is kosher, the store is still owned by the same Shlafman family that first opened it in 1949.
A few doors away is Wilensky’s, a small restaurant with origins in 1932 and family members still at the helm. With its Formica counters, bar stools and what could easily be the world’s tiniest washroom, the store feels like a 1930s time capsule. Monette orders the Wilensky Special, an original family recipe featuring beef salami, beef bologna and mustard on a grilled roll. No special requests or modifications are allowed, not for us or for Anthony Bourdain and Mordecai Richler, both of whom were customers.
On Boulevard Saint-Laurent, new stories mingle with the old. We picked up a babka at Hof Kelsten, where Jeffrey Finkelstein is turning heads with his challah, rugelach and rye. We passed Leonard Cohen’s grey-stoned triplex, a house he lived in from 1968 and that’s still owned by his family. “He was well known for padding around the streets in the slippers he bought right here,” Monette says, gesturing at J. Schreter, a shoe shop on the corner.
Between the bagels, the babkas and the Wilensky Special, it’s hard to make room for more food, but the length of the line outside Schwartz’s Deli tells us this one is not skippable, so on we go. Famous for its smoked meat sandwiches since its inception in 1928, the deli is now owned by Celine Dion and her partners, who have kept things much the same, adding a smoked meat poutine to the menu. Take a bite of one of Schwartz’s sandwiches, which literally bulge with hefty portions of meat, and you understand precisely why the little deli is such a cultural icon in the city. Quite simply, it’s unforgettable. It’s a fitting symbol for the city of Montreal, which is bursting with flavour.
Whether you come for the food, the history, the arts scene or the culture, Montreal is charmingly seductive, and so vastly different from Vancouver that it feels like an entirely different country. Now just four-and-a-half hours away, it’s an easy decision to put this sophisticated French city on the itinerary.
If you go …
• In April, Porter Airlines launched its daily round trip service between Vancouver and Montreal (flyporter.com)
• A bike tour with Fitz Montreal is a great way to explore Montreal’s highlights, with many sights packed into an exhilarating, fast-paced ride (fitzmontreal.com)
• Museum of Jewish Montreal offers regular Beyond the Bagel Tours in the spring, summer and fall. The three-hour tours include food and range from $79-$95 per person (museemontrealjuif.ca/beyond-the-bagel)
• Humaniti Hotel offers sophisticated accommodation in the heart of the city, steps from Old Montreal, the Palais des congrès and the Quartier des Spectacles (humanitihotel.com)
Lauren Kramer, an award-winning writer and editor, lives in Richmond.
Left to right: Joanne Belzberg, Henia Wineberg, Rabbi Yitzchok Wineberg, Arnold Silber, Tammi Kerzner and Syd Belzberg. (photo by Yaletown Photography)
For more than three decades, the Model Matzah Bakery, organized by Chabad Lubavitch in British Columbia, has offered a unique and interactive Passover experience for thousands of participants. What started in the early 1990s has blossomed into an event anticipated by children, high school students, adults and seniors alike.
The hands-on program immerses participants in the ancient tradition of making matzah, a significant element of the Jewish holiday of Passover. From separating wheat kernels to baking the final product, attendees go through each step of the process, gaining a deeper understanding of the cultural, spiritual and historical significance behind this unleavened bread.
One of the highlights of the Model Matzah Bakery is its emphasis on participation. Everyone is invited to roll up their sleeves and get involved in every aspect of the process. We begin by separating wheat kernels from the chaff, a task that connects us with the agricultural roots of this ancient practice. Next, we grind the kernels into flour, followed by meticulous sifting to ensure the purity of the ingredients. As the flour mixes with water, laughter and excitement transform the process into a joyful communal experience. With expert guidance from volunteers, participants roll out the dough, making sure to create holes to prevent leavening. And all of this must be completed within a strict time limit of 18 minutes, after which the dough may begin rising, which will create chametz, leaven, which is not permitted during Passover.
When participants left the Model Matzah Bakery, “they took with them not just matzah, but a sense of belonging and pride in their heritage.” (photos by Yaletown Photography)
This year, the Matzah Bakery got an upgrade as it partnered with Stable Harvest Farms. Not only did participants get to make matzah for Passover using locally grown, organic wheat, Stable Harvest Farms is also offering the chance for children to experience the process from farm to seder table – literally. Two family days will be hosted at the farm, where families will plant and then harvest their own wheat, which they will then use to create matzah for next Passover. Save the dates: May 12, a special Mother’s Day celebration, where the wheat will be planted, and Sept. 8, a pre-Rosh Hashanah experience, including harvesting the wheat and setting aside for Passover 2025/5785.
“Chabad is known for their innovative approach to Jewish education,” said one educator from a local Jewish day school. “This kind of hands-on, start-to-finish project will guarantee that the children remember the joy and excitement of the holiday for years to come.”
While initially designed for children, the Model Matzah Bakery has evolved to welcome participants of all ages. High school students and educators find themselves drawn to the program as an engaging way to learn about Jewish traditions, while adults and seniors appreciate the opportunity to celebrate their cultural heritage. This year, for the first time, children with special needs had their own opportunity to visit the bakery.
“It’s not just about making matzah; it’s about connecting with our heritage in a tangible way,” said Rachel Cohen, a long-time attendee of the Model Matzah Bakery. “The experience of being part of something so ancient yet so relevant to our lives today was truly special.”
Rabbi Dovid Rosenfeld, director of Lubavitch BC, which organizes this project, emphasized the importance of preserving and passing on these traditions to future generations. “Our goal isn’t just to teach about matzah making, but to create lasting memories and connections to our shared history through positive Jewish experiences,” he explained. “When participants left here, they took with them not just matzah, but a sense of belonging and pride in their heritage.”
There are numerous interpretations of Chad Gadya (One Little Goat), which ends the Passover seder. A cumulative song, like “There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly,” it starts with Father buying a goat, which is then eaten by a cat. Because it’s easier to summarize from the end, the last verse is, depending on your translation: then came the Holy One, Blessed be He, and slew the angel of death, who killed the butcher, who slaughtered the ox, that drank the water, that quenched the fire, that burnt the stick, that beat the dog, that bit the cat, that ate the goat. The Hebrew on the table in the cover image is the beginning of the song: Chad gadya, chad gadya, d’zabin Aba bitrei zuzei (that Father bought for two zuzim).
Often sung with different seder participants making the sounds of the succeeding aggressors, Chad Gadya is a cheerful song despite its violent imagery. With the numerous conflicts that mark human history and our present, I imagined the song’s characters, animate and inanimate, sitting down for a seder and what that might look like. This idea forms the centre of the cover scene.
While specifically about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Chava Alberstein’s 1989 version of Chad Gadya has always spoken to me more personally than politically. I have “been” the deer and dove of her song in my more empathetic and hopeful moments; her wolf and leopard in my more angry, fearful and hurt moments. As she sings – I, too, sometimes “don’t know who I am” in this world that can be so incredibly harsh. I, too, have thought, as Alberstein sings, and which I’ve written on the bottom of the cover art in Hebrew: “And we start again from the beginning …” each time one of us attacks another, with words or actions.
But giving up is not an option. So, while the characters of Alberstein’s song lie at the periphery of the seder image I created, 16 other symbols that might appear on a modern seder plate are scattered throughout. They represent what each of us can do to make ourselves better humans and the world a better place. They are not my ideas. I completely lifted all of them from “Beyond Bitter Herbs: Contemporary Additions to the Seder Plate” by Beverley Kort (with Leland Bjerg), which we ran in the Jewish Independent’s Passover issue last year.
Kort explains the meanings behind the fruit, acorns, chocolate, coloured light bulb, key, mirror, potatoes, banana, olives, basil, whole wheat matzah, vegetables, dried flowers, feather, rock and puzzle piece. For all the explanations, visit jewishindependent.ca/the-modern-seder-plate. Highlighting some of them: the acorns at the top of the picture represent an acknowledgement of Indigenous land rights; the rock above the dog’s head is symbolic of resilience; the key by the seder plate is about unlocking doors, embracing change; on the left side, the coloured lightbulb symbolizes the creative spirit; and the feather wafting off to the right is a reminder of the importance of kindness and compassion.
“Landscape with Moses and the Burning Bush,” by Domenichino (Italian, 1581-1641), painted sometime between 1610 and 1616. The Maggid, the storytelling portion of the Haggadah, is lengthy, yet it seems to dispense with the story of the Exodus in the barest of details. Where is Moses, or any of the other major characters? If telling the story of the Exodus is our essential task at the seder, it might seem that the Haggadah is more of an impediment than a facilitator. (image from Metropolitan Museum of Art)
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Even if we were all sages, all wise, all learned in Torah, we would be obligated to tell the story of the Exodus. And anyone who tells the story of the Exodus in greater depth is to be praised. Once [five sages] sat together in Bnei Brak and went on telling the story of the Exodus from Egypt the entire night….
Retelling the grand drama of our departure from Egypt, discussing it and probing it, and looking for new ways to relate to it: almost every commentator writing about the seder begins by emphasizing that the central obligation of this night is to tell the story, ideally at great length. Whether through acting or analysis or making connections to our own experience, we look for ways to immerse ourselves in this story. These lines from the beginning of the Maggid section define the seder and drive home the point: there is no such thing as too much story. It is sometimes even a point of pride to announce how late into the night one’s seder lasted.
But the Haggadah, the seder’s ritual script, is strikingly ill-matched to the task of retelling. The Maggid, the storytelling portion of the Haggadah, is lengthy, yet it seems to dispense with the story of the Exodus in the barest of details and go on to other things. Where is Moses, or any of the other major characters? Where are the moments of high drama? If telling the story of the Exodus is our essential task at the seder, it might seem that the Haggadah is more of an impediment than a facilitator.
It might help to remember that the Haggadah is, like many liturgical texts, a composite that cannot be expected to flow in a simple, linear fashion. But I will argue that the main problem is that we are actually misunderstanding what it means to “tell the story” of the Exodus. We see this when we step back to think historically.
The Haggadah first developed around a guiding principle very different from our contemporary expectations, one that closely reflects earlier biblical and rabbinic sources. In short, the original task of the seder was not to tell our story but to tell God’s story; it was not to talk about how we were slaves but rather to appreciate and celebrate the fact that, by the grace of God, we are not and will not be slaves.
In the conceptual world of the Torah, this version of the story is not only the focus of the seder but also the linchpin of Jewish tradition; our entire commitment to serving God is an expression of our gratitude for God’s salvation. The critical task of the seder is to make that salvation personal by conveying to our children that not only our ancestors but we ourselves, in the present, owe our freedom and our very identity as a people to God’s kindness. As long as we are busy looking for a story that was never meant to be there, we risk overlooking this key theme at the heart of the Haggadah.
From haggadah to sipur
Rabbis throughout the medieval and modern periods consistently present the central mitzvah of the seder as lesaper, to retell or to recount the story of the Exodus. The term suggests a detailed narrative, a sense reinforced by the idea that the more we draw out or elaborate on the story the better. Maimonides, in the 12th century, for example, begins his discussion thus:
“It is a positive commandment of the Torah to recount [lesaper] the miracles and wonders wrought for our ancestors in Egypt on the night of the 15th of Nisan.… Whoever recounts at greater length [marbeh lesaper] the events which took place is worthy of praise.” (Hilkhot Hametz U’matzah, Laws of Hametz & Matzah 7:1)
Indeed, recounting the story of the Exodus is the only element other than eating matzah that Maimonides designates as essential.
The chasm between our expectations for seder storytelling and what our text has to offer opens up as soon as the Maggid begins. Right when we are settling in for a story to answer the four questions, the Haggadah offers these two sentences:
“We were slaves [avadim hayinu] to Pharaoh in Egypt, but Adonai our God brought us out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm. And, had the Holy One not brought our ancestors out from Egypt, we, our children and our children’s children would still be slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt.”
This very, very short version of the Exodus story, a rephrasing of Deuteronomy 6:21, notes the Israelite enslavement but emphasizes God’s actions, in line with the commandment of lehaggid … for us – and our children, in particular – to celebrate Passover because God saved us from slavery.
Let’s put this in the context of the Mishnah’s guidelines for teaching children about the Exodus at the seder. The four questions we find in the Haggadah draw from Mishnah Pesachim 10:4, which provides detailed questions that the child may (or perhaps must) ask about the seder ritual. But for the parent’s response, the Mishnah provides only the following guidelines:
“According to the son’s knowledge, his father teaches him.
“He begins with genut [disgrace] and concludes with shevach [glory/praise].
“And he interprets [doresh] the passage: ‘My father was a wandering Aramean,’ until he concludes the entire section.”
The first line tells us that the response should be variable, tailored to the understanding of the particular child. The second sets the story’s basic framework: it should have a starting point, an end point and a narrative arc, leaving the rest to be filled in. The third line of the Mishnah identifies a passage from Deuteronomy 26 that briefly recapitulates the events of the Exodus and instructs us to interpret or study it closely in the manner of rabbinic midrash. Each of these is indeed a key part of the Maggid: the tradition of the four children expands on the idea of teaching each child according to her needs; two different proposals for texts that go from genut to shevach are included, “avadim hayinu” and a text from Joshua 24; and the longest section of the Maggid is a phrase-by-phrase interpretation of the passage, “My father was a wandering Aramean.”
“Avadim Hayinu” is intended to fulfil the second guideline. The words at the centre of that guideline, genut and shevach, suggest that the story we tell should trace the Israelites’ journey from disgrace to glory, from oppression to triumph. In Exodus 1-12, which traces the experience of Moses and the Israelites suffering from and then breaking free of Egyptian oppression, is indeed such a story.
But by this measure, the “avadim hayinu” passage in the Haggadah falls woefully short. It has the proper beginning and end, but that’s it. There is no middle and no elaboration to fill in what is missing. This has long been a major source of confusion for commentators. They posit that it is only intended as an opening, that it only indicates the starting point of the story rather than the whole story, or that it is a summary or abstract that precedes a fuller retelling. But these proposals merely highlight the simple fact that this is not the story we were led to expect. And none are at all convincing, since these two sentences clearly read as a self-contained unit, not as an introduction to something more expansive.
Detail from Seder Aravit ve-Haggadah, Corfu, 1877; engraved by A. Heinemann. When the Torah commands that we tell our children about the Exodus, it is referring specifically and exclusively to the wonders that God did on behalf of the Israelites. And the purpose of this commandment is to ensure that the next generation, recalling those acts, keeps an unshakeable faith in God’s love and a devotion to God’s mitzvot. (image from Library of Congress, Hebraic section)
Let’s take a step back and return to the Mishnah and, more specifically, its directive that parents teach their children a story that moves from genut to shevach. Although the word shevach can mean “glory” and, at first glance, seems to mean just that in the Mishnah, it is more typically used to signify “praise,” specifically praise of God. Understanding shevach as praise of God changes our understanding of the story the Mishnah wants us to tell. Rather than a story of Israel’s transformation from degradation to glory, we are to tell a narrative that begins with Israel’s degradation and concludes with a celebration of God’s might and love, as evidenced by the miracles of the Exodus. Looking back at “avadim hayinu” with this expectation, we can see that, indeed, it begins with the Israelites’ slavery and ends by describing the wonders God performed in the course of leading them to freedom. But we can go further, because these two elements are in fact the whole story. Perhaps, then, the directive is not “go from disgrace to glory” but only “mention disgrace and glory.”
In fact, the four times the Torah commands us to tell our children of the Exodus (Exodus 12:27, 13:8 and 14, Deuteronomy 6:21), it follows a similarly simple paradigm: (1) we were oppressed, but (2) we are no longer oppressed, thanks to God’s mighty and wondrous deeds. Degradation and praise are the only necessary points. Unlike later traditions, the goal of this telling is to instill in the children a sense of gratitude to God that will move them to join in the ritual and celebration, for which these two points suffice.
This affirms our sense that “avadim hayinu” was proposed as a complete fulfilment of the Mishnah’s mandate to tell a story that ends in praise of God. The Haggadah makes this clear in the next sentence, when it goes on to specify the moral of the “avadim hayinu” story: “Had the Holy One not brought our ancestors out from Egypt, we, our children and our children’s children would still be slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt.” This claim is implausible, living as we do, generations and centuries later, but it highlights the true purpose of lehaggid. It suggests that, had God not stepped in forcefully to alter their trajectory, the slaves would not have become a nation and the story of Israel would never have truly begun. This phrasing brings the story from the distant past closer to home. Real gratitude comes from the experience of having been personally saved. We need to understand and convey to our children that salvation is not a relic of the distant past, but that our own freedom is directly attributable to God’s wonders in Egypt. This reinforces the idea that the point is to teach about God’s actions, not the Israelites’ experience. Slavery serves only as the backdrop against which we learn to appreciate our freedom.
This message is, in fact, the foundation not only for one festival but for all of Torah: at Sinai, God’s identity as “the one who brought you out of Egypt” becomes the basis for God’s right to impose divine law. This connection is further expressed in the original setting from which “avadim hayinu” was taken, Deuteronomy 6. Here, the parent is commanded to teach about the Exodus in response to a child asking, “What are these rituals, statutes and laws that God commanded you?” This child is asking about the entire system of divine law, not the rituals of Passover, and yet the Exodus is still the answer. The message is the same: we were in need and God saved us with mighty deeds – and, it adds, led us to the Promised Land and gave us the law.
A wandering Aramean
Let’s turn now to the longest section of Maggid, an exegesis of Deuteronomy 26:5-8. This is the passage that begins with “arami oved avi,” “my father was a wandering Aramean,” in line with the third instruction we find in the Mishnah. The exegesis is written as a midrash, explicating phrase by phrase the biblical passage, which reads:
“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meagre numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labour upon us. We cried to Adonai, the God of our ancestors, and Adonai heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. Adonai freed us from Egypt with a mighty hand, with an outstretched arm and awesome power, and with signs and portents.”
This text does indeed begin at the beginning, with Jacob and family settling in Egypt and then being enslaved by the Egyptians; and it does end at the end, with God striking the Egyptians with “signs and portents.” What is conspicuously absent again is the middle, including everything that we would typically consider the drama of the narrative: the fear and bravery of Moses’s family; Moses’s crisis of identity and flight from Egypt; God giving him his mission at the Burning Bush; and Moses and Aaron’s confrontations with Pharaoh and their own people. Even the plagues, which in Exodus are a prolonged battle of wills and wits, are only briefly noted.
Many commentators, both traditional and modern, have struggled with the question of why this passage is chosen as the text for interpretation instead of a more robust summary from elsewhere in the Bible, or even portions of the original text of Exodus 1-12. Some propose quite implausible theories. Joshua Kulp offers refreshing clarity in the Schechter Haggadah with a simple and practical explanation:
“The passage was chosen because it is the briefest and yet still comprehensive passage in the Torah which tells the story of the descent to Egypt and the redemption. Such a short passage is prime material for midrash, a literary genre which focuses on individual words or phrases and connects them to other portions of the Torah. Exodus 12, or any other part of Exodus, is too long, digressive and not as comprehensive.”
In short, Kulp argues that the rabbis’ goal was to simply present a single, adequate review of the Exodus story for close reading. The limiting factor in the choice of text was that for the rabbis, close reading means midrash, a style of interpretation that works through a biblical text phrase by phrase, and, therefore, requires a fairly concise base text as its focus. These considerations made Deuteronomy 26 the obvious choice for the seder ritual. It would be impossible to read and interpret all of Exodus 1-12 within a single evening, while other summaries in the Bible are even briefer than the “arami oved avi” passage.
Kulp’s proposal is clearer and simpler than the alternatives, but it shares the basic assumption that this text is a less than ideal choice, that we should be telling a more complete version of these events, yet are saddled with one that leaves out key details. The distortions we find in how the story is told, with some elements described in detail and others passed over in silence, are an unavoidable but still unfortunate consequence.
I agree with Kulp’s assessment that other biblical reviews of the events of the Exodus (there are, depending how we count, at least 10 others) share the key features of the Deuteronomy passage. But I would argue that reading it in the context of these other passages actually reveals clearly what the Haggadah is doing and what it is not. It illustrates the distinction between recounting the Exodus as a story of the Israelites’ triumphant escape from slavery, and using it to enumerate praises of God – precisely the difference between lesaper and lehaggid.
These lists come in various forms, from songs of praise to speeches urging Israel to show gratitude, to confessions of Israel’s ingratitude. Psalm 136, known as the “Great Hallel,” is simply a list of God’s wonders across the full range of biblical history. It begins with the creation of the heavens, then describes God striking the Egyptian firstborn, bringing Israel out of Egypt and drowning Pharaoh’s army, followed by God defeating other kings in the desert and, ultimately, bringing Israel into the Promised Land. In Joshua 24, God speaks in the first person to highlight the wonders, including the Exodus, God did specifically on Israel’s behalf; while Psalm 106, a prayer of confession, emphasizes that God did these wonders despite Israel’s ingratitude and frequent rebellions. All of these focus on God’s actions, whether presenting them as evidence of God’s might, God’s kindness or God’s faithfulness.
“Arami oved avi” offers its own nuance on this theme. Originally a prayer of thanks to be said by Israelites bringing the first fruits of the Promised Land to the Temple, it describes in detail Israel’s descent, first to Egypt, then into oppression, and their cry for help. It describes Israel’s disgrace in order to frame God’s intervention as heroic, leading them up out of bondage, out of Egypt and back to the Promised Land, coming to their rescue in their hour of need, deepening the personal sense of appreciation and indebtedness. Even so, it is closely parallel to the other lists of God’s wonders. All of them recall the Exodus from Egypt specifically to present it as the preeminent example of God intervening in history, dramatically and publicly, on Israel’s behalf. The only relevant elements beyond the list of God’s acts are Israel’s need for them or response to them.
I want to emphasize how different this is from the original narrative in the book of Exodus. That text chronicles the human experience of slavery, following both the Israelites and the Egyptians, with a spotlight on Moses, Aaron and Pharaoh. God’s role is marginal until the final scenes. These other texts, by contrast, tell us only what God did, and notes human roles only to highlight God’s role.
The most illuminating example, though, is Psalm 78, which explicitly declares that it is the fulfilment of the mandate in Exodus to “tell your children.” Here are the key lines:
“We will tell the coming generation the praises of God and His might, and the wonders He performed. He established a decree in Jacob, ordained a teaching in Israel, charging our fathers to make them known to their children, that a future generation might know – children yet to be born – and in turn tell their children, that they might put their confidence in God, and not forget God’s great deeds, but observe His commandments.” (Psalms 78:4-7)
The psalmist is quite clear about both exactly what we must tell our children and why. When the Torah commands that we tell our children about the Exodus, it is referring specifically and exclusively to the wonders that God did on behalf of the Israelites in their time of need. And the purpose of this commandment, of repeatedly recalling those wonders, is to ensure that the next generation, recalling those acts, keeps an unshakeable faith in God’s love and a devotion to God’s mitzvot. The alternative, the psalm goes on to say, is also made clear in the Torah: the Israelites repeatedly lost that faith and rebelled during the desert journey, always with disastrous consequences.
And thus the picture comes into view in full clarity. It is true that “arami oved avi,” like the other reprises of the Exodus across the Bible, tells a very different story than Exodus 1-12. But that does not make any of these versions a deficient fulfilment of the Torah’s command, lehaggid. They are in fact fully in line with the lesson the Torah wants us to convey. Psalm 78 is literally the Bible’s prototype for how to properly fulfil it.
This is also the way almost the entire Haggadah approaches this command. It does not tell a tale that progresses from disgrace to praise, but one that includes only these two elements: we were in a place of disgrace and God redeemed us. And the point of this explanation is not the story itself but the lesson it teaches: God came for us in our time of need and did wondrous, astonishing, supernatural things on our behalf to bring us to freedom and make a place for us in the world. What we must do in the present is be thankful for those acts, acknowledging that they were done not just for our ancestors, but for us. Our devotion to God, which we show by performing the Passover ritual, celebrating the festival and observing all of God’s laws, flows directly from that awareness.
This framing opens up a whole new way to read the deeply evocative but enigmatic statement that concludes Maggid: “In every generation we must see ourselves as if we personally left Egypt.” Many explanations of this line take it to mean as if we had personally been enslaved, and this can be a springboard for cultivating empathy for all who are oppressed. But the Haggadah’s focus is not on slavery; it is on coming out of Egypt. Here, too, slavery recedes to the background and the Exodus is what matters. It is the Exodus, the exhilaration of being carried to safety in God’s hands, that always needs to feel like it just happened to us.
This is the real point of the seder ritual, for the Exodus to be happening in what we can call the Eternal Present. Like Moses’s paradoxical claim that all future generations stood/stand at Sinai, the seder is meant to make us feel for a moment that we are there on the banks of the sea, living that ecstatic moment of finally knowing that we are fully and irrevocably free. Look back and you will notice that the crucial claims in the Haggadah are in the present tense. If God hadn’t saved us, we today would still be slaves. In every era, including our own, there is an enemy pursuing us and, true to God’s promise, God saves us from their hand. Our freedom now is thanks to the Exodus; we are kept safe now because of God’s promise; and when we see that, when we really get it, we will be able to see ourselves as if we now are standing on the banks of that sea, that God’s salvation happened to us personally and thus makes a direct claim on each of us. We did not all experience slavery, but we have all been saved from it.
And the ritual prescribes that we respond to that awareness just as we did the first time, with an instinctive and unrestrained outpouring of song. This is the moment of transition in the seder: we go from the story of our disgrace to an intense song of praise filled with the intensity of those who have just escaped oppression. We, in this moment, know that we owe all we have to God’s salvation and, therefore, cannot help but begin pouring out songs of thanks. If we have done Maggid properly, Hallel will simply burst forth. This is where the night reaches its apex, when we are ready to relive the joy of salvation and to sing praise to God with the same intensity and gratitude as the Israelites who sang at the sea.
A time for singing
I have tried to demonstrate that the reason we often find it hard to engage meaningfully with the Haggadah is that the text is focused on a fundamentally different purpose than the one we typically bring to the table. Part of my goal has been to unlock the mystery in this familiar text, so we can see it anew and read it on its own terms; I have also tried to reclaim this earlier mission, which has been largely displaced by sipur. I would not wish to argue that storytelling should be removed, that we hold back from discussing slavery, from remembering Moses, Miriam and Aaron. Sipur enables us to include and engage children of all ages by filling in the missing narrative – playacting Moses’s showdown with Pharaoh, marching around like Israelites in the desert and making the plagues colourful and silly. In this way, our children are engaged and they come to know the story as their own. And the challenge of finding new layers of this story adds richness and creativity to the ritual.
But I also hope I have convinced you that the story is not an end in itself. A ritual’s sole function cannot be limited to retelling a familiar story, even if it is a great story. Even if it is our story. The goal of the seder ritual is for us to notice and to celebrate how far we have come; and to move us to joy, to gratitude and, ultimately, to hallel, to praising God.
So, the seder can be a time for telling wonderful stories or for reflecting on evils yet to be overcome. But don’t worry if you don’t get to the whole story. Don’t fret about its moral ambiguities. There is a time for self-critique, a time for feeling the weight of the world’s burdens. But not on this night. The seder is not the night to relive the suffering of being slaves. It is the night to relive the joy, the elation of that moment when we left slavery behind to embark on a new journey, full of promise and possibility. Looking at the open vistas around us, knowing that we were once slaves, how can we keep from singing?
Joshua Cahan compiled and edited the Yedid Nefesh Bencher and the Yedid Nefesh Haggadah. This article appears in the Spring 2023 issue of Sources: A Journal of Jewish Ideas, an award-winning print and digital journal (sourcesjournal.org) published by the Shalom Hartman Institute of North America (hartman.org.il) that promotes informed conversations and thoughtful disagreement about issues that matter to the Jewish community.
This introduction appears in In Every Generation: A Haggadah Supplement for 5784, recently published by the Shalom Hartman Institute (hartman.org.il).
The injunction, “Bekhol dor vador chayav adam lir’ot et atzmo keilu hu yatzah mimitzrayim,”“In every generation, each person is obligated to see themselves as if they had participated in the Exodus from Egypt,” is one of the most evocative lines in the Haggadah. It is a call to empathy, to feel the suffering and redemption of our ancient ancestors as our own. It is also a command to use the story to bring meaning into our own contexts, as we imagine ourselves being lifted out of despair and into freedom.
Every year, we see ourselves in this story in a different way – this is part of what makes the seder such a lasting and powerful ritual. This year, the reverberating trauma of Oct. 7, ongoing war in Gaza, thousands of Israelis displaced from their homes, rising antisemitism and weakening bonds of allyship around the world give us new lenses for understanding the Exodus story. In some cases, the words of the Haggadah feel more relevant; in others, the Haggadah’s proclamations clash with reality. How can we celebrate a holiday of freedom when more than 100 people are still held captive in Gaza? How do we call for all who are hungry to come eat at our tables when so many Israelis are not at their own seder tables and millions of Palestinians are on the brink of famine?
While there are no definitive answers to these questions, the Shalom Hartman Institute of North America has developed : A Haggadah Supplement for 2024, a collection of readings, essays and questions inspired by The Israeli Haggadah: Special Edition (Hebrew, 2024) by Mishael Zion and Noam Zion, celebrating the 20th anniversary of their 2004 Israeli Haggadah, later released in English as A Night to Remember: The Haggadah of Contemporary Voices. We encourage you to read In Every Generation as you prepare for the holiday and then to bring it to your seder table … to re-enter a generation-spanning conversation and envision ourselves anew in the Exodus story’s themes of persecution, resilience and redemption.
After Oct. 7, Mishael Zion began collecting and reading haggadot from the founders of the kibbutzim next to Gaza, finding strength in their determination and in the contemporary resonance of their additions to the Haggadah. He writes, “Reading their words, I was reminded that the power of the Exodus is not only in the covenant of common fate that we forged, but also a covenant of destiny…. It affirms that in every generation we can, and we must, change history.”
These haggadot include one created by founding members of what would become Kibbutz Be’eri, one of the kibbutzim in the Gaza Envelope that was attacked on Oct. 7, 2023. The nascent group related to the Exodus story of suffering and redemption and, like generations of Jews before and since, they added new layers to the ancient texts, recording their aspirations for their new community through supplemental texts and illustrations. As Yigal Zorea describes in Lines and Dots, his blog about Kibbutz Be’eri, several years after that first Passover, the kibbutz members hired designer Paul Kor to embellish their initial efforts. The image [on this page] comes from the end of Kor’s version of the Haggadah. It depicts groups from ancient history, including those scattered from the Tower of Babel, the Israelites enslaved in ancient Egypt and the ma’apilim arriving in the land of Israel during the British Mandate period, all arriving and merging into one collective at Kibbutz Be’eri, where they receive comforting verses from the prophets, affirming that their hardship will be rewarded and the Jewish people will be gathered together once more.
A page from the Kibbutz Be’eri Haggadah, designed by artist and author Paul Kor (1926-2001). (image from Shalom Hartman Institute)
The people who created the Kibbutz Be’eri Haggadah were in the early stages of building a safe and self-sustaining home in the desert, and their conditions were precarious. The Passover’s story of biblical enslavement and salvation served as the foundation for their own resilience. Their Haggadah is just one example from a rich history of Jews adapting the framework of the Haggadah to suit their contexts and to foster meaningful contemporary conversations. Many kibbutzim across Israel still make their own haggadot for Passover, timelessly drawing on the same hopes and questions that the founders of Kibbutz Be’eri included in 1946. But this year, six months after the kibbutz communities of the Gaza Envelope were attacked, it is particularly powerful to bring voices from these kibbutzim – their worry and their optimism – into our seder conversations, preserving this history of storytelling, even as the buildings and communities they built stand empty this Passover.
We invite you to use some or all the materials from In Every Generation to bring contemporary questions to an ancient ritual and story, and we encourage you to invite guests to bring their own supplemental materials, too. Like the founders of Kibbutz Be’eri, who created a Haggadah depicting the lush fields that surrounded them and quoting biblical texts, we hope the resources of In Every Generation will help you tell the story of the Exodus in a way that reflects the values, challenges and aspirations of Jews today. The supplement includes excerpts from kibbutz haggadot; essays on understanding and responding to the “wicked child”; pieces on the role of hope in Jewish history and in the present; and more.
This year, when we say “leshana haba’ah beyerushalayim,” “next year in Jerusalem,” may we do so with the intention and prayer that, next year, Jerusalem will be at peace. To download In Every Generation, visit hartman.org.il.
Rabbi Jessica Fisheris the director of rabbinic enrichment at the Shalom Hartman Institute of North America.
Chef and dietitian Micah Siva’s new cookbook, NOSH: Plant-Forward Recipes Celebrating Modern Jewish Cuisine, proves that plant-forward meals can be bursting with flavour and colour. (photo by Hannah Lozano)
“This is really good,” said my wife, as she tasted the steaming hot Spiced Cauliflower Chraime I had made from the new cookbook NOSH: Plant-Forward Recipes Celebrating Modern Jewish Cuisine (The Collective Book Studio) by chef and dietitian Micah Siva.
“‘Plant forward’ is a way of cooking and eating that emphasizes plant-based foods without limiting one’s diet to being vegetarian or vegan,” writes Siva. “This book is meant for anyone who follows a plant-based diet or is looking to adopt a plant-forward way of eating.”
It’s also for anyone who appreciates delicious food, from what I can tell from the plates I tried. Nonetheless, Siva does offer solid advice for meat-eaters wanting to become more plant-forward. In that regard, she talks about getting enough protein and iron, what can be substituted for eggs, etc.
On the Jewish side, she gives milk and butter substitutions to make a recipe pareve (permissible for observant Jews to eat with milk or meat dishes) and offers sample holiday menus. I found the Shabbat Matrix interesting – the cooking time required (little, more and lots) is on one axis and the effort involved (low and high) is on the other. Siva offers some ideas to think about
depending on the time and effort you can put into the meal. So, you can buy store-bought challah or make your own, make spritzers or just buy a bottle of wine and/or grape juice, for example.
Given that Passover is approaching, I focused on a few of the recipes Siva highlights for the holiday. Her list comprises Turmeric Vegetable Matzo Ball Soup, Vegan “Gefilte” Cakes, the aforementioned Spiced Cauliflower Chraime, Herbed Horseradish Salad, Cast-Iron Potato and Caramelized Onion Kugel, Passover Black and White Cookies and Passover Coconut Macaroons. In addition to the chraime, I made the kugel and the macaroons. For fun, and because I have a huge bag of sumac from another cooking experience, I also made two Olive and Sumac Martinis – though neither my wife nor I are hard-liquor folks, we enjoyed our sips.
The production quality of this cookbook is high. The layouts are beautiful, with lots of colour photos and easy-to-follow instructions, which are supplemented by dietary labels (ex. vegan, gluten-free, Passover-friendly), the time required to get the food or drink on the table and clearly listed ingredients, as well as a brief introduction to each recipe and notes about certain ingredients that may be new to some cooks, or variations that could be used, possible substitutions.
NOSH includes a glossary and I learned a lot perusing it. Amba, for instance, is a “tangy, spicy, pickled mango-based condiment or sauce of Indian-Jewish origin” and toum is a “garlic sauce, similar to aioli, made of garlic, oil, salt, and lemon juice.” Siva gives some hints about measuring, choosing ingredients and shopping efficiently. There is an index at the back of the book, plus conversion charts for liquid and dry measures, and a Fahrenheit-Celsius temperature table. Acknowledgements and a bit about the author round out the publication.
In the few recipes I tried – and Passover-friendly ones at that – the expansive flavour palette on offer was evident.I look forward to making some of the 80+ other recipes in this cookbook, which illustrates the global diversity of Jewish culture. Siva may have grown up in Calgary, but her repertoire travels well beyond, to the Middle East, India, Africa, Europe and elsewhere Jews live or have lived. Her blog, at noshwithmicah.com, is worth checking out.
The cauliflower chraime was packed with spices – all of which I miraculously had in my cupboard! – and I will definitely make this dish again, as it was not only tasty but also easy to put together. According to Siva, it “is typically made with a whitefish poached in a tomato broth” and is often served in Sephardi families instead of gefilte fish during Passover. The recipe suggests serving it with couscous or rice, neither of which observant Ashkenazi Jews can eat during the holiday, so I plated it with mashed potatoes, which are OK for all Jews on Passover, and the two paired well.
It is worth sharing Siva’s note in the cookbook, acknowledging that the recipes “that are ‘Passover Friendly’ will have kitniyot,” even though “Ashkenazi Jews typically prohibit kitniyot, which includes rice, corn, millet, and legumes (beans), as they look too similar to grains. While customarily left out of Passover menus, it is not technically prohibited by the Torah.” So, “[i]f a recipe is listed as suitable for Passover, please use your discretion, and do what feels more comfortable for you and your family.”
In the recipes that follow, all of which I recommend, I don’t include (for space reasons) the informative introductions that appear in the book. I made only one adaptation, choosing not to dip the coconut macaroons into chocolate, my personal preference being to just enjoy the richness of the coconut, brightened by the splash of lime juice and zest.
SPICED CAULIFLOWER CHRAIME (serves 4, on the table in one hour)
The Spiced Cauliflower Chraime from NOSH will be an immediate favourite. (photo by Micah Siva)
2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil 1/2 medium white onion, cut into 1/2-inch pieces 3 garlic cloves, finely chopped 3 tbsp tomato paste 4 tsp smoked paprika 2 tsp ground turmeric 1 tsp ground coriander 1 tsp ground cumin 1 tsp ground ginger 1/4 tsp ground cinnamon 1/2 tsp red chili flakes 1/4 tsp sea salt juice of 1 lemon (about 2 tbsp) 1/2 cup canned diced tomatoes 1 1/4 cups vegetable broth (low-sodium, if preferred) 1/2 cup golden raisins 1 small head cauliflower, cut into 6 wedges (if using a large cauliflower, cut into 8 wedges) 2 tsp date syrup or maple syrup 1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro,for serving Cooked couscous or rice, for serving (I used mashed potatoes)
Heat the olive oil in a deep skillet over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until it begins to soften, 5 to 6 minutes.
Add the garlic, tomato paste, smoked paprika, turmeric, coriander, cumin, ginger, cinnamon, chili flakes, and salt, stir until combined, and cook for 2 to 3 minutes. Pour in the lemon juice, canned tomatoes, broth and raisins and stir to combine.
Place the cauliflower in the pan, cut side down in a single layer. Bring the liquid to a boil, decrease the heat to a simmer, cover and cook until the cauliflower is tender, 15 to 20 minutes.
Drizzle with the date syrup and garnish with the cilantro. serve with cooked couscous or rice.
Note: Store in an airtight container in the fridge for up to 5 days.Reheat in a pan, oven, or microwave until warmed through.
Variations: Substitute chopped dried apricots or figs instead of raisins. Looking for more protein? Add a can of drained and rinsed chickpeas along with the canned tomatoes and/or crumble some feta cheese on top.
CAST-IRON POTATO ANDCARAMELIZED ONION KUGEL (serves 10 to 12, on the table in 2 hours)
Micah Siva’s Cast-Iron Potato and Caramelized Onion Kugel can be a side or a meal. (photo by Micha Siva)
5 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil, divided 2 medium yellow onions, cut into 1/2-inch pieces 1 1/2 tsp salt, divided 2 pounds (3 or 4) russet potatoes 4 large eggs 1/2 tsp black pepper 1/4 cup matzah meal sour cream, coconut yogurt, crème fraîche or labneh, for serving (optional) fresh chives, chopped, for serving
In a 9-inch cast-iron pan, heat 2 tablespoons of the olive oil over medium heat until the oil is hot but not smoking. Add the chopped onions, spreading them evenly over the bottom of the pan. Decrease the heat to medium-low and let cook, undisturbed, for approximately 10 minutes.
Sprinkle the onions with 1/2 teaspoon of the salt and cook, stirring occasionally, until browned and broken down, 30 to 45 minutes. Once golden and caramelized, transfer the onions to a large bowl.
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Add the remaining 3 tablespoons of olive oil to the cast-iron pan and place it in the oven to heat up while you prepare the potatoes.
Fill a large bowl with ice water.
Using a food processor fitted with the shredding disk, or a box grater on the largest hole, grate the potatoes. The potatoes will oxidize, so be sure to shred right before use.
Add the potatoes to the bowl of ice water. Let sit for 10 minutes to remove excess starch.
Drain the potatoes, transfer them to a clean kitchen towel, and wring out any excess liquid. The more liquid you can remove, the better! Add the potatoes to the bowl with the caramelized onions.
Add the remaining 1 teaspoon of salt, eggs, pepper and matzah meal and stir to combine.
Carefully remove the cast-iron pan from the oven and spread the potato mixture in the pan, pushing it down to compact the potatoes. It should sizzle on contact with the pan. Return the pan to the oven and bake for 1 hour, or until deep golden brown on top.
Serve with sour cream and chopped chives.
Note: Prepare this kugel up to 4 days in advance and store in an airtight container in the fridge.
Variation: Add 1/2 cup chopped parsley to the kugel along with the matzah meal.
Substitution: This recipe uses russet potatoes, but you can use Idaho potatoes instead.
PASSOVER COCONUT MACAROONS (makes 12 [large] macaroons, on the table in 45 minutes, including 10 minutes resting time)
Lime juice and zest make Micah Siva’s Passover Coconut Macaroons special. (photo by Cynthia Ramsay)
2 cups unsweetened shredded coconut 1/2 cup sugar 1/3 cup potato starch 1/2 cup canned full-fat coconut milk 1 tbsp lime juice 1/2 tsp lime zest 1/4 tsp sea salt 6 ounces (about 1 cup) dark chocolate chips 1 tbsp coconut oil
Preheat the oven to 325°F. Line a sheet pan with parchment paper.
In a medium bowl, combine the coconut, sugar, potato starch, coconut milk, lime juice, lime zest and salt until well combined.
Using a cookie scoop or ice cream scoop (large enough to fit approximately 2 tablespoons), scoop up some of the coconut mixture and pack it very firmly into the scoop. Use your fingers or the back of a spoon to press it into the scoop. Gently remove the coconut mound from the scoop and place it onto the prepared sheet pan. Tap the back of the cookie scoop to release it, if needed, and reform the mounds after placing them on the pan. Repeat with the remaining coconut mixture.
Bake for 22 to 25 minutes, or until golden. Let cool on the sheet pan. Once cool, remove them from the pan and place them on a plate. Line the sheet pan with wax paper.
While the macaroons are cooling, combine the chocolate chips and coconut oil in a microwave-safe bowl and microwave in 30-second increments, mixing well between each increment, until smooth.
Once the macaroons are cooled, dip the bottoms into the melted chocolate and place them on the prepared sheet pan. Refrigerate the macaroons until the chocolate is set, about 10 minutes.
Note: Once the chocolate has set, store the macaroons in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 5 days or in the refrigerator for up to 2 weeks. Store them in the freezer for up to 3 months.
Variation: Add 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract or 1/4 teaspoon of almond extract to the mixture in place of the lime zest and lime juice. Fold in 2 tablespoons of rainbow sprinkles and dip them into melted white chocolate.
OLIVE AND SUMAC MARTINI (serves 1, on the table in 10 minutes)
An Olive and Sumac Martini is one of the unique drink options in NOSH. (photo by Cynthia Ramsay)
1/2 ounce olive juice, plus more to rim the glass 1/2 tsp sumac, plus more to rim the glass 2 1/2 ounces gin or vodka 1/2 ounce dry vermouth ice 2 or 3 olives, pitted
Pour a little olive juice into a shallow dish. Place some sumac in another shallow dish. Dip the rim of a cocktail glass into the olive juice and then into the sumac. Gently shake off any excess sumac and set aside.
In a cocktail shaker or a jar with a lid, combine the gin, vermouth, 1/2 ounce olive juice and 1/2 teaspoon sumac and fill with ice. Stir or seal and shake until well chilled, 20 to 30 seconds. Strain the liquid into the rimmed cocktail glass and garnish with olives.
Congregation Sha’are Shalom in Kingston, Jamaica. (photo from Jamaica Tourist Board)
It was a muggy Friday afternoon just hours after my family and I had touched down in Jamaica for a two-week vacation, and the plan was to attend evening services at Kingston’s only synagogue, Congregation Sha’are Shalom. Too tired to argue, my kids and spouse changed clothes, we squashed six into the rental car and ventured into the city.
Though we knew the stately synagogue on Kingston’s Duke Street had been there since 1912, it still felt surprising to go inside and find eight members of the tribe leading a Shabbat service. The two-level synagogue is a magnificent piece of architecture, with a majestic, mahogany aron hakodesh filled with Torah scrolls from other Jamaican synagogues that closed or merged over the years. The ground floor is composed of sand, making this one of just five sand-floored synagogues worldwide. One story says the sand hearkens back to when Jews were worshipping in basements in Spain and Portugal, during the Inquisition, and sandy floors silenced their footsteps. Another legend says the sand is there as a reminder that we should multiply like sand on the seashore.
Sha’are Shalom has space for at least 300 congregants, but when we arrived, there were just the eight locals and the six of us. The deep, sonorous baritone of one member, who led the service from the mahogany bimah, filled the air with a spiritual melody and, above us, ceiling fans whirred, adding a reprieve to the humid evening. From the bimah, Stephen Henriques, the spiritual leader, spoke of the dispersal of Kingston’s Jewish community over the past four decades, adding that many of today’s members are interfaith. “Still, we are here, celebrating and living our Jewishness, as we have done for centuries,” he said.
We were warmly welcomed to the service, and happily joined in a kiddush of grape juice, challah and sweet Jamaican coco bread. I tried to imagine a time when the synagogue was brimming with Jews, its walls resonating with children’s laughter, congregants’ prayers and Jewish possibilities. There were times like this, but they happened many, many years ago.
Jamaica was occupied by the Spanish from 1494 until 1655. During that time, Jews from Spain and Portugal began trickling onto the island. With the Spanish Inquisition underway, those Jews became Marranos, practising their faith in secret. In 1655, when the British occupied Jamaica, Jews were able to practise their faith without secrecy, but they weren’t completely free from discrimination. Between 1690 and 1740, a “Jew Tax” was levied and only in 1831, the year of the largest slave rebellion in the country, were Jews allowed to vote and participate fully in public life.
Jewish businessman George Stiebel (1821-1896) was Jamaica’s first Black millionaire, in 1881. (photo by CoCoLumps / wikimedia)
Jews had been quietly involved for years before that, but they embraced this opportunity with gusto. By 1849, eight of the members of Jamaica’s House of Assembly were Jewish. George Stiebel, a Jewish businessman who made his fortune in gold mining in Venezuela, was the country’s first Black millionaire, in 1881. He built Devon House, one of the country’s flagship mansions and a national monument today.
We continued to nibble on coco bread in the Jewish Heritage Centre adjacent to the synagogue, wishing we had more time to peruse the walls, where there is lots of historical data on Jewish contributions to the island. It was dark by the time we left, so we didn’t have time to see the memorial garden, where tombstones dating back to the 18th century have been relocated.
A few days into our stay, we left Kingston for Ocho Rios and Montego Bay on the north coast. When the sun shone, we explored Jamaica’s beaches, relishing the feel of the warm water on our skin. When the rain came pouring down, we drove to neighbouring parishes to explore small towns.
One such drive took us to Falmouth, a small town whose poverty and neglect is loudly revealed in its deeply potholed roads and dilapidated homes and buildings. Coming, as we did, from an all-inclusive resort just 20 minutes away, the disparity between the two environments was glaring.
But it wasn’t always this way. The Jewish cemetery in Falmouth is filled with the graves of Jewish merchants who dominated the once-flourishing trade here in the 19th century. When I announced we were making a stop at the cemetery, there was a collective groan from the back of the car. “We went to synagogue – now we have to visit dead Jews?” my son asked. As my husband valiantly navigated through potholes the size of small swimming pools, I tried to explain how a cemetery could be a fascinating place to explore history.
Though we were probably only a stone’s throw away from the cemetery, we never made it. After one particularly large pothole, and another ahead that threatened to drown the rental car, a decision was made. “I love you, sweetheart, but I just don’t want to get stuck out here,” my husband declared.
I couldn’t blame him.
Drive around Jamaica and safety is not a feeling that comes easily. For one, the drivers overtake with such reckless disregard for life that road accidents always feel imminent. For another, the looks you get from some locals leave your Spidey sense tingling with fear. Leave the resorts and there are few warm welcomes from the community at large it seems, with the exception of those who have something to sell. Jamaica is known for its violence, with a rate of 52.9 homicides per 100,000 people, as compared to Canada’s, at 2.5.
We turned around and headed back to the resort, where staff sweep trash off the beach daily, and food and booze are readily available day and night. Moving between the pool and the ocean, it didn’t take long to relax. As the mojitos flowed, though, my mind kept returning to those tenacious Jews who arrived in Jamaica hundreds of years ago. They came with sand in their shoes and buckets of determination to pursue their religion and build success in a new land. I wondered what they’d say if they could see Jamaica today.
Lauren Kramer, an award-winning writer and editor, lives in Richmond.
The City of Vancouver’s Broadway Plan includes different ideas for different areas. This image shows the general intention for Broadway’s shoulder areas. (image from vancouver.ca)
Assuming you haven’t been hiding under a rock for the past many years, you’re probably familiar with Marie Kondo. For those of you boulder-hiders, she’s the author of The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing. I think she’s also the genius who coined the term “spark joy.” As in: “If it doesn’t spark joy, get rid of it.” While I’d bet the farm that this thought has crossed the mind of many a wife over countless years of marriage, I believe what Kondo is referring to is the stuff that clutters our home. And, by “stuff,” I don’t mean husbands. Although, if the shoe fits….
Speaking of clutter, my husband and I recently got a shock. The apartment building I’ve been living in for the past 37 years (and Harvey’s home for the past 18 years) is on the chopping block, thanks to the City of Vancouver’s Broadway Plan. The city has ever so kindly put up a huge sign on the front lawn of our building with the jazzy-looking redevelopment plan. What is currently a quaint three-storey apartment from the 1970s is soon to become two high-rise towers (19 and 20 floors, respectively) with retail below.
This whole situation is not sparking a lot of joy. If I’m being completely honest, it’s pretty much just sparking a whack load of anxiety. Currently, we are paying the lowest rent on the planet for a large two-bedroom apartment. We will soon be faced with finding a similar-sized apartment that will easily rent for two to three times as much. Did I mention that we’re both retired? This is no pity-party; it’s just a reality that is sparking the opposite of joy.
On the topic of sparking joy, though, I am now in the process of downsizing, in preparation for having to move. Frankly, I’m surprised by the dearth of joy that is sparked as I go through 37 years’ worth of stuff. Like many of my contemporaries, I was gifted loads of my parents’ old possessions when they downsized from a house to a condo to an apartment. I’m now realizing how popular teak was in the 1960s. And, surprise of surprises, it’s making a comeback. Which brings me to Facebook Marketplace, where I am divesting myself of myriad useless possessions. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and all that. Turns out, my trash is pretty lucrative.
What I’m learning through this experience is that there’s very little that sparks joy for me anymore. Let me clarify. My family and friends spark a great deal of joy. My community sparks a lot of joy. But does my mom’s 1958 aluminum roasting pan spark joy? Hard no. Likewise, their teak serving tray that once did yeoman’s service at cocktail parties. No joy there. However, the Gen Zs around town think it’s a new invention and are willing to pay top dollar for it. As witnessed by the bidding war it sparked on Marketplace when I listed it. I’m continually amazed by what people will buy: used barbells, wooden boxes, old clothes, eight-year-old computer keyboards and cordless mice, and on and on. I even sold the toilet riser I bought after I had knee replacement surgery last year. (All cleaned, of course.) To date, I have sold enough stuff to buy a brand-new high-end kitchen appliance. But not enough to buy a designer puppy. Or a Honda CR-V. But still.
In the process, I have acquired a new-found appreciation for simplicity and minimalism. Decluttering has become my BFF. Never thought I’d say those words. A true dyed-in-the-wool packrat, this whole experience has been eye-opening. And, believe me when I tell you that my decluttering is sparking a tremendous batch of joy for my husband Harvey, who likes things tidy. There are areas of our apartment he’s never even seen before. “We have a walk-in closet?”
As I throw myself body and soul into my new mission, I realize it’s taking a toll on my balabustaness. I’m so focused on getting rid of things that I sometimes lose track of time. “Oops, it’s dinnertime already? Guess we’ll just have to order in.” I have (in my head) committed to homemade meals at least five days a week. The other two days are catch as catch can. Read: tuna melts, scrambled eggs or takeout. OK, read: takeout. We’re supposed to be supporting the economy, right?
On the topic of balabustaness and cooking, did I mention that, due to health challenges, my husband has to be on a strict low-salt diet? And he also has to avoid high-potassium foods. Which makes being the Accidental Balabusta way less accidental. I’m practically the Intentional Balabusta now. But, oh, how I love a challenge. Think DASH diet, blah, blah, blah. Which is exactly how low-salt or no-salt food tastes. Blah, blah, blah. Consequently, I’ve enlisted countless heads of garlic, jars of spices and armloads of herbs. Onions would solve multitudinous culinary conundrums, except that onions and I are not on speaking terms.
As I scour the internet for low-salt recipes that don’t taste like sawdust, I am truly underwhelmed. Surely, we’re not the only family who is sodium-challenged yet appreciates flavourful food. Maybe we are. If anybody out there in Balabustaland has some delicious low-sodium recipes, please feel free to share with me.
On another health-related note, my husband recently had prostate surgery, and I’ve been given to understand that high-protein foods promote healing. Thing is, his appetite has diminished quite a bit since his surgery. He’s asking for light comfort foods, like eggs and soup. When I inquired what kind of soup he fancied the day he got out of hospital, my humorous hubby replied: “Leek.” I chose not to dwell on that unfortunate pun. He may have had his prostate removed, but he certainly hasn’t had a humour bypass. I settled on chicken soup.
But, like Harvey said, there’s a lot of humour in this whole prostate situation, if you ignore the pain. For instance, at Harvey’s first post-op visit to our GP, the doctor asked how Harvey’s was doing. To which Harvey replied: “Depends.”
Stay tuned for more on decluttering, salt-free cooking and, well, probably leakage. To those of you who have a urologist on speed dial, urine good hands.
I’ll see myself out.
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.
Lemon loaf using a recipe by Jo-Anna Rooney, creator of A Pretty Life in the Suburbs. (photo from aprettylifeinthesuburbs.com)
So, a husband walks into Costco … with no shopping list. And what happens? He comes out with $200 worth of steak, a 10-pound bag of lemons (which, by my calculations, will make about 300 whiskey sours), 12 jars of capers, eight boxes of latex gloves, a snow blower, two big boxes of chocolate truffles and 98 rolls of toilet paper.
I am left wondering: what the hell am I supposed to do with a snow blower? We live in an apartment in Vancouver. And we’re not the caretakers. I ask my husband, “What’s up with the snow vehicle?” He just shrugs. Like, maybe he plans on relocating us to Winnipeg? “It was on sale,” he says.
I continue my interrogation. “So, are you planning to resell it on Facebook Marketplace, since you have it on good authority that there’s going to be a monstrous snowstorm coming to Vancouver? Or did you buy it as a gift for our cousins in Michigan?”
Just when I think he’s going to take up the challenge of my inquest, he demurs. I guess it’s not the snow hill he wants to die on.
My very next thought is: what the heck am I supposed to do with 10 pounds of lemons? Don’t say “make lemonade,” because, well, that’s seasonal. I consult with my BFF, Google, and she tells me that the best thing I can do with lemons is make lemon loaf. By now, she’s figured out that I love old school recipes. Being the compliant (and lazy) baker that I am, I gather my ingredients and have at it. Despite that it’s a classic 1960s/1970s dessert, I’ve never made it before. But, since everyone tell me a chimpanzee could make it (like that’s supposed to make me feel better about myself), I can hardly sidestep the challenge.
Long story marginally shorter, my husband and I demolished the whole lemon loaf in less than 24 hours. OK, make that 12 hours. I’m pleading the fifth. Wow, look what I just did with the math there. Anyhow, I baked, I fought, I ate. The fighting came into play when the last piece of lemon loaf was left.
LEMON LOAF (a recipe by Jo-Anna Rooney)
1/2 cup butter (or margarine) 1 cup granulated sugar 2 large eggs 1 1/2 cup all-purpose flour 1 tsp baking powder 1/4 tsp salt 1/2 cup milk zest of 1 medium lemon (but not the juice) ** juice of 1 medium lemon 1/4 cup granulated sugar
Preheat oven to 350°F and then prepare an eight-inch-by-four-inch loaf pan by lining it with parchment paper. Set it aside.
With a mixer, cream together the butter and sugar. Add in the eggs, one at a time.
In a separate bowl combine the flour, baking powder and salt. Add half of the flour mixture to the butter mixture. Then add half of the milk. Add the remaining flour mixture. Mix in the remaining milk and lemon zest. Bake for 45-55 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the centre comes out clean.
While the cake is baking, combine the juice from one lemon with 1/4 cup granulated sugar.
When the cake is baked, take it out of the oven and pierce holes in it with a thick bamboo skewer or a sharp knife – make sure to pierce to the bottom of the loaf so the lemon juice mixture can get right down into the cake. Pour the lemon juice/sugar mixture over the warm cake. Let it sit. This cake is even better the next day, and there is no need to refrigerate it.
Tip: I used parchment paper, like the recipe called for, but, next time, I’d just grease the loaf pan and bake it that way. The parchment paper allows for easier removal from the pan so that you can present it prettily on a plate, but who are we kidding, it won’t last a day, so just eat it straight out of the loaf pan. You’re welcome.
After I made the lemon loaf, I realized it was almost time for dinner. Not feeling particularly inspired, I browsed through my mother’s old National Council of Jewish Women Cookbook from the 1960s, hoping for a quick fix. Honestly, I have no idea how housewives raising families in the ’50s and ’60s managed to come up with a different dinner day in and day out for decades. Donna Reed, with her poodle skirt and kitten heels. How did she do it? I can only surmise that she wasn’t serving Michelin Star meals every night. It was probably more like shepherd’s pie, liver and onions, fish sticks or TV dinners (if the kids were lucky). Then I saw it: tuna noodle casserole! Thankfully, it wasn’t my mom’s version, which tragically included chow mein noodles and canned mandarin oranges on top. I want to gag just thinking about it. My version was neat but not gaudy, and it practically made itself. Once again, you’re welcome.
TUNA NOODLE CASSEROLE
2 cans of tuna fish 1 can of mushroom soup approx. 1 cup frozen carrots and peas approx. 1 cup grated cheese (any kind) pasta of your choice (enough for a few people) Panko crumbs salt & pepper to taste
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Boil pasta as per the package and grate the cheese.
Once the pasta is ready, drain the water and add the mushroom soup, tuna, peas and carrots, and salt and pepper. Mix it all together. Pour it into a large casserole dish and top it with the grated cheese and Panko crumbs. Bake for about 20 minutes or until the cheese bubbles and gets slightly brown.
Sure, you could fancy this up using Gruyere cheese and organic, gluten-free pasta, with chopped up fiddlehead greens instead of carrots and peas, but, seriously, why would you want to? Stick to the KISS principle – keep it simple, silly. The proof is in the pudding: my husband and I both loved it. Judging by how he hoovered it down, he probably wouldn’t mind if I made it at least once a week. Hmm … maybe that’s why he just bought 36 cans of tuna at Costco.
I’m fully aware of how unsophisticated this recipe is but, hey, I never claimed to be a connoisseur of food. I did, however, claim the title of accidental balabusta. And it fits, right? Bon appetit!
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.
