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April 22, 2005
Matzah balls like lead sinkers
How Mrs. Chaipul's kneidel recipe saved Chelm from being swept
away.
MARK BINDER
Mrs. Chaipul is actually a wonderful cook. When you run the only
kosher restaurant in the village of Chelm, you have to be. But her
lead sinker matzah balls are never going to change.
The recipe had been in her family for generations. Jaw-breaking
matzah balls were one of the afflictions that the family suffered.
At one seder, Mrs. Chaipul's grandfather claimed that if Solomon's
Temple had been built from his wife's matzah balls, it would still
be standing. These remarks were greeted with stony silence.
During her first year in Chelm, Mrs. Chaipul (a widow) was too busy
opening the restaurant to prepare for the seder, so Shoshana Cantor,
the merchant's wife, invited her to share her family table.
It was a sumptous feast. When the soup came, Mrs. Chaipul was surprised
to see that the walnut-sized matzah balls were actually floating.
She picked a spoon, lifted a matzah ball, exercised her jaw and
bit.
When you're expecting a rock and instead your teeth sink into whipped
air it comes as a shock. She sat there with the spoon held in front
of her mouth for quite some time.
"Is everything all right?" Shoshana Cantor asked. "Is
there enough salt?"
"Interesting," Mrs. Chaipul said quietly. And then she
added so as not to offend her hostess. "Quite tasty."
By the end of the seder, Mrs. Chaipul was disheartened and confused.
Had her family been wrong for so many years? Or were the villagers
of Chelm misguided?
She took her concerns to Rabbi Kibbitz. (This was in the days before
they were married.) She explained her problem, and waited for pearls
of wisdom.
He was no help.
"Kabbalah I know," he said. "But cooking?" He
shrugged.
Mrs. Chaipul set the questions aside and went back to her restaurant.
A year flew past, and Passover was fast approaching. Shoshana Cantor
stopped in to invite her to the seder and said, "I understand
that your restaurant will be open this year."
Mrs. Chaipul grinned. "Yes, of course. It wouldn't be Passover
without the famous Chaipul kneidel. I missed them last year and
I thought that I would give them away this year to make up for my
mistake."
Mrs. Cantor's eyes widened. "You're giving away free food?
You'll go broke."
"Well," winked Mrs. Chaipul. "The matzah balls will
be free, but the soup will still cost."
It was pouring rain on the second day of Passover and still the
line for Mrs. Chaipul's restaurant snaked out the door. Fortunately,
she had anticipated the crowd, so she had made six kettles the size
of washtubs full of matzah balls. Into every bowl she ladled soup
and a kneidel, and said with a smile, "Remember that we were
once slaves in Egypt."
The villagers thought this was quaint, though they were startled
when their matzah ball sank to the bottom of their bowl with a thud.
The restaurant was crowded, elbow to elbow, tighter than the shul
on Kol Nidre eve. No matter that it was cold and wet and bucketing
down rain outside. Inside, they were warm and cosy, glowing with
anticipation.
The soup was sweet and savory, rich with the snap of parsnip and
perfectly peeled slices of carrot. It was, in the words of Rabbi
Kibbitz, "Good enough to cure even an uncommon cold."
And then it was time to eat the matzah balls. They were as big as
ripe apples and heavy. It wasn't so easy to get such a large kneidel
onto your spoon. Some children had to use two hands.
At last came that first bite.
Ow! It hurt. It was dense, like damp clay. Your teeth got in, and
it tasted all right, but it was hard work, like sawing firewood
with a nail file. After two minutes you began to have second thoughts,
but your teeth had sunk in so deeply that they were trapped, and
there was no choice but to go on. At 15 minutes, your jaws began
to ache.
At last you bit through. The flavor was good, robust, and it went
on and on and on. You nodded and smiled at the neighbor whose face
was not six inches from your own. And then you chewed some more.
Afternoon dragged into early evening, the rain was still pouring,
and still they were chewing.
Suddenly, young Doodle, the village orphan, burst into the restaurant.
He had forgotten that there was free food and had been wandering
through the village looking for someone to tell his news.
"Mrs. Chaipul! Rabbi Kibbitz! The dam on the Bug River has
burst! And a flood is coming."
There wasn't time to think or plan. A stampede raced out of the
restaurant, through the village square, to the banks of the river,
where the high water dam that they built and maintained had broken.
A wall of water was rushing toward their homes. In minutes, it looked
like Chelm would be washed away and drowned, forgotten in a deluge
like the village that Noah and his ark floated away from.
No one could speak. Partly because they were in shock, and partly
because they were still chewing. The villagers were so upset they
hadn't even bothered to put down their bowls and spoons.
Mrs. Chaipul, who had been too busy serving to eat a bite, broke
the silence with a command.
"Throw your matzah balls into the river," she shouted.
"Aim upstream from the break in the dam!"
The villagers did as they were told. Matzah balls went flying. They
were caught by the current and washed into the crevass where they
became lodged. More and more matzah balls flew into the river, landing
with loud sploshes until the gap in the dam was almost sealed.
Still, water was dribbling through. It could break at any time.
Again, Mrs. Chaipul spoke. "Spit your matzah balls into the
river."
Spit? Such a thing! Everyone looked at Rabbi Kibbitz, who shrugged,
and then spat.
"Ptooie!"
Partially chewed pieces of matzah ball flew at the dam and stuck
fast. The water crested, and receeded, and not even a dribble leaked
through.
The villagers cheered!
"Mazal tov for Mrs. Chaipul's famous kneidels!"
Mrs. Chaipul beamed and kvelled.
Then, much to her surprise, Rabbi Kibbitz kissed her on the cheek
and whispered into her ear, "Delicious, and good exercise too.
You should never change that recipe."
What could she do? She didn't.
Mark Binder is an author and award-winning storyteller. Visit
him online at www.markbinder.com.
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