The Jewniversal Language of Nosh
"Suddenly food was an invitation to appreciate other cultures, connect with people and perhaps spark a transcendent moment of joy, even love. Isn’t there something spiritual about that?"
By Alison Neumer-Lara
Nothing prompts an identity crisis like Rosh Hashanah.
At the start of each Jewish New Year, and so far 5784 is no different, I’m prompted to reevaluate my relationship with Judaism. It’s not all that great — I don’t belong to a congregation or attend services anymore — yet the season inevitably (and annually) stirs a longing to reconnect with the religion and culture of my childhood.
But there’s at least one way that I’ve consistently maintained my faith: food.
I’ll always be a Culinary Jew. Each fall, I crave the Eastern European diet of my ancestry. At my cousin’s Rosh Hashanah table, dinner inspires reverence with matzo ball soup, latkes and challah (the holy trinity of Jewish carbs; yes, I said it), and the fragrant promise of brisket and tzimmes.
It means more than you’d think. For me, many of life’s best memories stem from food, so this faithful connection to Jewish cooking logically follows. I look forward to all of the holiday menus and the warm sense of belonging, family and cultural inclusion that they generate. Maybe I didn’t hear the shofar this year, but my grandmother’s noodle kugel recipe is its own blessing. I still know how to braid challah and will always keep matzo meal in the house; some rites never fade away, even if I don’t perform them.
Is that really faith? Maybe you’d call it frail or tenuous, but food is inarguably one of our best links to culture, history and human connection. There’s a special alchemy that happens at a table when we sit together and share time, food and ourselves, the body’s senses fully flooded. It’s where I feel closer to people, how I learn about the world and probably why I’m a dedicated student of all things gustatory. In fact, I’ve spent my work life focused on it, too — writing about agriculture, nutrition, restaurants and cooking.
It didn’t start out that way. I was a skinny little kid with faint interest in eating or holiday meals — except for the bowls of Fannie May candy that my great aunt set out on the table. (What were those pink peppermint squares anyway?)
Then, in 1986, when I was 10, our family traveled to Israel on my first trip abroad. We toured for two weeks, visiting the incredible sites you’d expect, but as a squirmy fourth-grader, I struggled with the adult touring pace and a guide who was prone to endless lecturing.
Food, however, signaled a break! I started looking forward to meals, which became a vivid introduction to Israeli culture and cuisine.
I got my first taste of falafel from a street vendor in Tel Aviv and remember battling a crowd to reach the tahini. On a kibbutz, we walked the farm fields and picked a fruit new to all of us in the 1980s, pomelo. One of my clearest memories is from a roadside stand near Bethlehem where I watched an older, graying man mince heaps of lamb and parsley by hand. In a few deft motions, he mixed the ingredients and formed rows of perfect oval kofta, like he’d been doing it all his life — and maybe he had. I was mesmerized.
Israel is where I learned to love food and it kicked off a lifelong interest. Suddenly food was a living, evolving story to be explored and experienced — a lens for understanding society and tradition, an invitation to appreciate other cultures, connect with people and perhaps spark a transcendent moment of joy, even love. Isn’t there something spiritual about that?
In her new memoir, Here All Along, Sarah Hurwitz, a former Obama speechwriter, recounts reconnecting with her Jewish identity after growing up in a minimally religious household, much like my own. Hurwitz explains that her parents felt an obligation to help her foster a bond with Judaism, and so:
“Twice a year, on the major holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, they dragged us to services, where we squirmed through the endless droning melodies, halfheartedly recited the prayers…and obeyed the seemingly random calls to stand up and sit down.”
After her bat mitzvah, Hurwitz recalls, she “was just kind of done with Judaism.” It’s a familiar story for many of us American Reform Jews.
Only much later, as a mature adult, did she return and discover the full intellectual complexity of an ancient religion. The dormant seed of her Jewish upbringing remained, it just needed some coaxing and fresh soil to sprout and mature.
I’d like to think mine remains, too. Culinary Judaism keeps it alive for now, but one day, I’ll be ready to serve it more spiritual food for thought.
ALISON NEUMER-LARA is a Communications Strategist and Former Journalist at Crain’s Chicago and The Chicago Tribune.
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