Tool: Other People’s Family Stories and Recipes
Like a lot of people several generations removed from their family’s immigrant roots, I don’t have a lot of the cultural knowledge they brought with them to the United States. In order to discover the foods, stories, and every day experiences they might have had, I have to turn to the stories of other people from my communities. Here, I’ve used Mark Bittman’s recipe for kasha varnishkes.
The Story:
I don’t have a lot of family recipes. There is Aunt Josie’s vegetable soup and my mother’s brisket (both wonderful), but not much else. Our (my mother says I have to add the word “delicious,” so here it is) latkes and matzah balls came out of a box and our gefilte fish out of a jar.
We didn’t have a lot of specifically Jewish food growing up. With the exception of my cousin Joan, I don’t think any of our local family kept kosher. My grandfather would bring us corned beef from Victor’s, the local Jewish deli (a place that is deeply missed), and we’d have traditional foods at Chanukah and Passover, but otherwise, we ate what I think of as just standard American fare.
Here is a joyful memory: when I first moved to New York, a friend took me to the 2nd Avenue Deli. I was mystified by most of the menu, having never heard of things like cholent, matzoh brei, kreplach, or kishke. When the waitress heard me ask him to explain the dishes, she said something to him to the effect of “not Jewish, hun?”
“Oh no,” he said. “She’s Jewish. She’s just from a place where there aren’t many other Jews.”
She bent over and pointed to a few things on the menu. “But you know this, yes?” she’d ask, and I would shake my head. “This?” “Nope.”
“Okay, wait, I’ll be back.” She grabbed a stack of saucers from the kitchen, and then walked from table to table, mostly stopping at the ones where elderly people ate in twos and threes. At each table, a person or two would slide a little bit of what they were eating onto a saucer, and when her tray was full, she brought it to our table.
“Here. She placed the tray on the table. “You explain them to her, I”m busy” she said to my friend. And so we had everyone else’s lunch for lunch. And some of it was delicious, and some of it I only needed to try once, but all of it was wonderful.
I love this story, and the generosity and community it speaks to. It feels like a very Jewish story to me, but maybe it could be the story of any community made up of immigrants proud of their foods and customs. When I borrow other people’s family recipes to fill in what I don’t know about Jewish food, or their stories to fill in what I don’t know about custom, I remember all the generous people at the 2nd Avenue Deli who shared their lunch with me and am grateful all over again.
I'm in love with a dining room now.