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The Jewish Kitchen: recipes and stories from around the world The Jewish Kitchen recipes and stories from around the world, ISBN 9781840914931 and books by Clarissa Hyman on sale at thebookshelf.co.nz Jewish cooking is the daily expression of not only religious beliefs, but also a cultural and family history. The recipes passed from one generation to another tell their own story of a familys past. An historically peripatetic people, Jewish communities can be found in every corner of the globe. Obliged by religion to adhere to the dietary laws of kashrut, Jewish cooks have adapted local cuisines to reflect their culture. When recreating an old recipe in a new land, they have worked with the available ingredients to produce dishes that unite religion with necessity, and past with present. Delicious hybrids, these dishes tell their own tale of Jewish families, their history and their culture. About the AuthorClarissa Hyman is a freelance food and travel writer. In 2002 she won the prestigious Glenfiddich Food Writer of the Year award.A former television producer, she brings to her evocative writing a love of storytelling, an interest in people and places, and a lifelong passion for good food. Clarissa has contributed to many national publications including Food and Travel, Country Living and The Times. Clarissa has also published Cucina Siciliana and The Spanish Kitchen both by Conran Octopus.Peter Cassidy is a leading food and interiors photographer. This is the second book he has photographed for Clarissa Hyman. Peter contributes regularly to Food and Travel magazine. Table of ContentsIntroductionFood and Festivals Dairy Meat Pareve Index ExtractAs this is a Jewish cookbook, I"ll start with a Jewish joke. The Brisket Joke. Like many of the recipes in this book, it is tried and tested, but still bears regular repetition. So, don"t stop me if you"ve heard it.A young Jewish mother is preparing a piece of brisket one day for dinner. Her daughter watches with interest as she slices off the ends of the brisket before placing it in the roasting pan, and asks why she did this. The mother pauses and says, "You know, I"m not sure. This is the way I always saw my mother make a brisket. Let"s call grandma and ask her." She phones her mother and asks why they always slice off the ends before roasting the brisket. The grandmother thinks for a moment and then says, "You know, I"m not sure why, this is the way I always saw my mother do it." Now they"re all very curious, so they pay a visit to great–grandmother in the nursing home. "You know when we make a brisket," they chorus, "we always slice off the ends before roasting. Why is that?" "I don"t know why you do it," replied the old woman, "but my reason was that I never had a pan that was large enough!" Well, it"s only old if you"ve heard it before, but this cautionary tale tells us something about food and tradition. It makes the point, for example, that cooking is not a rigid practice, that recipes must evolve according to the times and places in which we live, our changing circumstances and our personal tastes and skills. One friend, who offered me a recipe, said she originally gave it to a cousin, then it worked its way around the family until it was finally passed right back to her (slightly changed, of course. No Jewish cook can resist a little, how shall I put it, improvement?). It also warns us against regarding the past with unquestioning reverence. Of course, we all know our grandmothers were expert shoppers who had tremendous strength of character, the physical stamina and infinite patience to hand–chop, hand–beat, hand–whip, hand–grate everything from gefilte fish to grains of couscous. But although there was reminiscence in every bite they took, a belief that everything (sigh) was better in the "old country", most of them were only too glad to embrace labour–saving technology, much as we, in our turn, do today. On the other hand, the story emphasises that certain dishes can act as bonds that tie the family together and link the generations in deep, emotional ways. Tradition may be a Fiddler on the Roof cliche, but tradition still tugs at the heart strings and shapes the passage of the years. In our minds, a haze of nostalgia hovers over the Jewish kitchen like the steam from a pot o{simmering soup. Nostalgia, of course, isn"t what it used to be, but it can still play culinary tricks. Another joke tells of the man who kept complaining that his wife"s chicken never tasted as good as that made by his mother. One day, in sheer annoyance, she served it up burnt and blackened. "At last", he exclaimed with delight, "You"ve made it exactly right!" So, Jewish cooking is more, far more, than just food on a plate. It is a map of the past, as well as a continuing story of religion, history, culture and family life. It is also a portable concept, a statement of identity that journeys in mental baggage across continents, war–zones and social upheaval, through good times and bad, emigration and re–settlement, into exile and back – a place of refuge in times of trouble. Sometimes that baggage takes physical form – the heavy iron casserole or brass mortar and pestle transported to a new life in a new land – mostly it is an expression of family values, an assertion of stability in a world of chaos. Jewish cooking has often been a constant as Jewish cooks have repeatedly criss–crossed the globe, fleeing from persecution and prejudice, in search of physical safety, economic security and religious freedom. In the worldwide Jewish Diaspora, traditional foods are a taste of home – sometimes an ancient biblical home, sometimes a place in Eastern Europe, the Levant or Spain that was home for centuries. And in the homeland of Israel, these foods are still celebrated alongside and incorporated into an emerging, vibrant new national cuisine. Like the braided candle that is lit to say farewell to the Sabbath and so separate the sacred from the everyday, Jewish cooking reflects the diverse strands of Jewish history and dispersal: Ashkenazi (Jews of mostly central. and eastern European descent), Sephardi (of Spanish and Portuguese origin), and Mizrahi (of North African and Middle East origin), plus others such as the Jews of Italy, Yemen, Ethiopia, India and Central Asia. Jewish food, on one level, is the food eaten by Jewish people, and for centuries that has reflected the food of the countries where they have stopped or settled. This book, indeed, reflects the fact that the Jewish Diaspora spans the globe, each community taking on the culinary colour and shading of its hosts, borrowing ingredients and adapting techniques to suit the constraints of the Jewish kitchen. Gefilte fish is a classic example – the nature of the fish changing as patterns of Jewish migration forced the housewife to make use of whatever fish was locally available. German zimtsterne biscuits, for example, are eaten by non–Jews at Christmas, by Jews at Rosh Hashanah – fried sardines stuffed with herbs are popular with Moroccans of every denomination. From the borsht and blintzes of Eastern Europe to the spicy fish and couscous of North Mrica, from Latin American picadillo, rich with vibrant flavouring, to the unique rice dishes of Central Asia, the Jewish kitchen is dazzlingly diverse, an edible coat of many colours. Not that the trade was always one–way: the Jewish presence has left its mark on the way in which Italians cook artichokes alia giudea, for example – in Britain the origin of fried fish and chips in oil is attributed to Jewish influence and ingenuity. The differences, however, between the Jewish and non–Jewish worlds have always been more significant than the similarities, perhaps because every act in the Jewish kitchen, as in Jewish life as a whole, is imbued with a greater meaning. Kashrut, the dietary laws that define what Jews can and cannot eat, is the common thread that has kept the kosher kitchen separate from its fellows. Even when Jewish cooks in various parts of the world produce dishes unrecognizable to each other, their cuisine is still based on common function and shared religious tradition, rather than on a single geographical terroir. With very few exceptions, what is kosher in one part of the world is kosher everywhere else, and the food taboos are deep and powerful, almost visceral. Sometimes, as at the time of the Inquisition, Spanish and Portuguese "Marranos" (Jews forced to convert or face death) were "exposed" for their lack of faith because they would not cook with pork fat or made their adafina casserole on Friday to avoid cooking on the Sabbath – half–way across the world, the Jews of Yemen adhered to all the precepts of kosher cooking, despite their centuries of isolation. Every Jewish family today has its own level of observance, but even when food is the final remnant of faith, there are still boundaries, such as spreading a chopped liver sandwich with butter, beyond which Jewish cooking loses its essence and very soul (not to mention the fact it simply could never taste right). Jewish children quickly learn what is permitted and what is not, a knowledge that is acquired alongside what the social historian Ruth Gay has called "a palette of tastes, with its distinctive smells and textures". As she says, however much the assimilated Jew may depart from the chosen path, hidden in each head is an original tuning fork that demands the comfort of chicken soup (or aubergine borrekitas or beef with okra…) on a dark winter day. More fundamentally, Kashrut, as well as separating Jew from non–Jew, is a constant reminder of how the divine interacts with daily existence. As Maimonides argued, the dietary laws "train us in the mastery of our appetites. They accustom us to restrain both the growth of desire and the disposition to consider the pleasures of eating as the end of man"s existence." Some rabbis in the Talmud went even further: to eat non–kosher food, they said, would "clog up the pores of your soul". Food, indeed the very act of eating, is never to be taken for granted. The Jewish home is seen as a reminder of the destroyed Temple, the kitchen its sanctuary and the table its altar, above all on the Sabbath. As such, food is both physical and spiritual nourishment, to be consumed with respect and gratitude. As well as blessings for different foods, there are blessings both before and after the meal, for as the Book of Deuteronomy says: "And you shall eat and be full and you shall bless…" Every meal is, in a sense, a religious ceremony that has helped preserve both faith and family. If Kashrut is the frame that holds Jewish food together, then the Sabbath and festivals are the nails that keep it in place. Throughout the world, Jewish families have always held to, and been united by, the special foods that mark the passage of the weeks and year: the Sabbath challah bread, the dairy dishes for Shavuot or fried ones at Hanukkah. The obligations of these holy days have also helped define the nature of the Jewish kitchen: slow–cooked casseroles or cold fish dishes, for example, that avoid the need to cook (i.e. work) on the Sabbath – the ingenious dishes, such as mina de maza, or Swiss carrot cake that use matzah and matzah meal instead of bread and flour during Passover. Celebration or commemoration, food is always part of the ritual. There may be a multitude of fascinating variations on the theme, but the similarities are the greater force for communal solidarity and religious cohesion. This is, in part, because of Kashrut and the religious calendar, but also because Jewish food is often inspired by biblical symbolism, Talmudic word–play and mysterious layers of meaning, shot through with spiritual yearning. Jews have always talked a lot about food, partly because dietary prohibitions intensifY the pleasure of the permitted (the meal after the Yom Kippur fast, for example), and partly because historically it was often so lacking in their lives. Jewish mothers were always adept at making a little go a long way, scrimping and saving to be able to celebrate the holidays with the choicest foods – many individual dishes retain the simplicity of poverty, hardship and affliction. Indeed, Jewish writers would often fantasize about tasty dishes because they were "so poor, there was no money for water over the kasha". It is perhaps one reason why Jewish cooking so often mixes the bitter or sour with the sweet. The Yiddish saying bitterer gelechter (bitter laughter), describes the humour to be found in the worst of situations… but the bitterness is always there. In food, as in life. Today, however, the sophisticated kosher consumer is able to take advantage of sophisticated kosher products that blur the boundaries and make the kosher kitchen as up to date and as inclusive as any other, but this book is not about nouveau Jewish nor kosher–lite cooking, Jewish sushi, mock prawn cocktail or bacon substitutes. Neither is it a first–find–the–kitchen manual. Nor is it 1001 things to do with a piece of chicken. Nor, with some exceptions, especially the ones given to me by several talented young Israeli chefs, is it about giving an innovative twist to classic recipes. No, there are already many wonderful Jewish cookbooks that do these jobs far better than I ever could. In a popular satirical newspaper column in Salonika in the 1930s, that depicted the comic fictional trials and tribulations of an everyday Sephardi family, the feisty, sharp–tongued Benuta demonstrated her contemptuous disdain for new–fangled "inedible" Western dishes such as sardines with butter, and cauliflower with mayonnaise, adding, for good measure: Las balabayas de agora son kuzineras kon livro (the housewives of today are book–cooks). Adiosanto! Guilty, Benuta, but in defence, as I cannot be by your side in the kitchen, as oral memories fail and domestic life deconstructs, books like this must continue to be written. So, this Jewish Kitchen is largely about traditional family dishes, passed from one cook to another or handed down through the generations. Many of these recipes came with instructions to include "ein bisl dis, ein bisl dat", a little this, a little that… and I have tried to keep them in character without turning back the clock. Some updating has been necessary, but I hope they remain true to the spirit of the originals. In my research for this book I opened an old 1930s cookbook that had belonged to my mother and a crumpled piece of paper fell from the torn, yellowing pages. A fragment from a forgotten life, it was a long–forgotten recipe for home–pickled herring, beautiful1y transcribed in copperplate handwriting, but with no other clue to its origin or author. An epitaph for an unknown housewife. Such recipes are endangered in every culture and tradition – it is a testament to the strength of Jewish family life that so many have endured for so long. It is also why I felt it important to record the context of the recipes of The Jewish Kitchen. This is nothing new, of course. Claudia Roden and Evelyn Rose in the UK and Joan Nathan and Gil Marks in the US, in particular, have all made hugely distinguished contributions to the history ofJewish food. This book is a small attempt to add to this collective body of work and portray a current cross–section of Jewish life in the Diaspora and in Israel, along with dishes that tell their own tale of family and culture. Some of the communities portrayed in the book are large and expanding – others are small and determined to flourish against the odds – some are relatively new and others venerable – some intrigued me because of their geographical location, others because of their history – and there are individual stories that may make for uncomfortable reading. Yet, we cannot understand why and what we are today, without understanding the past which brought us here. So, this book comes with a qualification. Or maybe several. First, this is not a definitive compendium ofJewish recipes. Those included are but a small sample of a vast repertoire – sadly, because fell from the torn, yellowing pages. A fragment from a forgotten life, it was a long–forgotten recipe for home–pickled herring, beautiful1y transcribed in copperplate handwriting, but with no other clue to its origin or author. An epitaph for an unknown housewife. Such recipes are endangered in every culture and tradition – it is a testament to the strength of Jewish family life that so many have endured for so long. It is also why I felt it important to record the context of the recipes of The Jewish Kitchen. This is nothing new, of course. Claudia Roden and Evelyn Rose in the UK and Joan Nathan and Gil Marks in the US, in particular, have all made hugely distinguished contributions to the history ofJewish food. This book is a small attempt to add to this collective body of work and portray a current cross–section of Jewish life in the Diaspora and in Israel, along with dishes that tell their own tale of family and culture. Some of the communities portrayed in the book are large and expanding – others are small and determined to flourish against the odds – some are relatively new and others venerable – some intrigued me because of their geographical location, others because of their history – and there are individual stories that may make for uncomfortable reading. Yet, we cannot understand why and what we are today, without understanding the past which brought us here. So, this book comes with a qualification. Or maybe several. First, this is not a definitive compendium ofJewish recipes. Those included are but a small sample of a vast repertoire – sadly, because of space, many classic and favourite recipes have had to be left out, many communities unrepresented, many tales left untold. However, I hope that those unfamiliar with Jewish cooking will learn that it is more than salt beef on rye, and that both the Jewish and non–Jewish reader will find something new, informative – and tempting. A little forspeise (appetiser) of the pleasures of the Jewish table. I hope, also, my own Ashkenazi roots have not unduly influenced my view of the Jewish kitchen, as for me this book, too, has been a journey of discovery. Secondly, in the kosher Jewish home, there are meat meals or dairy meals, and whilst individual recipes can, of course, stand perfectly well on their own, without this frame of reference they are like Friday night without the candles, kiddush without the wine. Thirdly, I learnt a long time ago that if you take two Jewish cooks, you end up with three opinions, if not thirty. So, if these pages do not correspond to your view of how to make the perfect latke or lentil soup, all I can say is it is part of a great Jewish tradition to argue about everything in life, including the size of the chopped onion. Finally, there is one ingredient that no home should be without, and no cook should leave out of the recipe. It"s the one thing that made my mother"s Jewish cooking so special for me. Love. Lots of love. Whether or not you cut the ends off the brisket. Clarissa Hyman, England, 2002
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 "The Jewish Kitchen: recipes and stories from around the world")