Why is this blog different from all over blogs?

Jews have been in the South for a long time -- a fact that seems to have escaped many New Yorkers who express shock when anyone Jewish speaks with a Southern accent. Indeed, the first Jews settled in south Georgia, where I grew up, in the 1730s. My family was not among them, of course. We made our way down the Eastern Seaboard in the early 20th century on my mother's side and my father joined the group after World War II.

So what does this have to do with lox and biscuits? Southern Jewish cuisine is unique, influenced by traditional Eastern European and Sephardic cooking, African cuisine brought by former slaves and the English, Scottish and Irish food traditions from the groups that primarily settled the area.

At my family's home in a small town in Southeast Georgia, Sunday night supper often consisted of "traditional" Jewish food such as lox, whitefish and herring, boiled potatoes and sour cream accompanied by a pan of buttermilk biscuits, baked by our beloved housekeeper. And, of yes, all of it was accompanied by achingly sweet tea served from a giant metal pitcher.

In this blog, I'm going to write about this food tradition, sharing memories and recipes. If you are interested in Southern Jewish food, please join the discussion.

BTW, Sweet Potato was my nickname from my father when I was very small. My Bubbie and others called me Shana Mammalah. Can you get much more Southern and Jewish than that?

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Fast Times

Why would anyone write about Yom Kippur in a blog about food? To discuss the break-the-fast, of course.
The problem is that I’m not much of a fan of late 20th or early 21st century break-the-fast celebrations. For one thing, I’m really don’t like the ubiquitous sweet noodle kugel. For another, after a day of fasting and spiritual contemplation, attending a party is the last thing I want to do – definitely far down the list from taking a bath and going to bed.
What bothers me the most is that, for too many Jews, the holiday has become more about the meal afterward than the fasting and prayer that come before. The tendency to end the fast early, often as much as two hours before sundown, is often related to someone’s desire to serve the break-the-fast meal at a more civilized time than well after 8 p.m.
It’s probably been a decade since I attended a break-the-fast and, as best as I can remember, I haven’t hosted one for at least 20 years. On that occasion, my friends and I didn’t dip into the whitefish salad until nearly 9 p.m., well after the prohibitions had lifted.
As an adult, I only remember enjoying one break-the-fast meal, and that was because it beautifully captured the spirit of the day instead of perverting it.
Shortly after we were married, Marc and I were invited to end the fast with a meal at the home of some close friends. Those friends, at the time, were in their late 70s or early 80s, and had a very different idea of “celebrating” the end of the holiest day on the Jewish calendar.
The other guests, like our hosts, were old enough to be our parents, yet made us feel both welcome and cherished. The conversation was low-key but warm as befit the occasion. After all, we had just stood in judgment before the highest court imaginable and our fates had been decided, although we did not know the verdicts.
We were honored to be at a table with people with true wisdom. They understood how the sweetness and hardships of life work together to grow souls.
The meal started with a steaming bowl of cabbage borscht. Chunks of beef were enveloped in a tangy tomato soup filled with cabbage, beets and other vegetables. It tasted great and felt good going down. (My blood sugar also probably appreciated its slow rise rather than the kind of spike caused by sweet kugel.)
A plain but satisfying meal of roast chicken, potato and vegetables followed, Our hostess, who is still very much alive in her 90s, finished the meal with some homemade cake. Her husband, of blessed memory, led the blessing after the meal.
(To this day, when we recite the blessing after the meal, Marc and I both hear in our heads his southern-accented Hebrew. We feel privileged to have known him and to not be able to forget the sound of his voice in prayer.)
The entire meal took a little more than an hour, and we then headed home to the aforementioned showers and bed. We were full with dinner and friendship and ready to face the workday the next morning.
There is a time for celebrating after Yom Kippur, of course. It’s called Sukkot and starts four nights after the fast ends. Indeed, the holiday is often called, “the season of our joy.” The meals take place in specially-constructed booths from which you can view the sky and remember who provides far greater protection than a mere roof.
Sukkot is my favorite holiday, at least partly because it is a showcase for autumnal cuisine. This year, I won’t be cooking as much as usual because our friends have been so kind in inviting us to eat in their sukkahs.
So far, I’ve only made one dish for the holiday. It’s a version of cabbage soup, and, with fond memories of our friends who no longer live here, I plan to serve it with a side of friendship.


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