Reflecting on the Resilience of the Human Spirit: Celebrating Jewish American Heritage Month
From the desk of Paula Schaire, Chief Creative Officer, FLIK Hospitality Group
The most meaningful celebrations are rooted in sharing personal stories and many of these stories are centered around food. From the gathering of ingredients to breaking bread with family and friends, these moments in our kitchens help form powerful connections that last generations.
In May we honor Asian American Pacific Islander Heritage Month and Jewish American Heritage, celebrating the contributions of respective communities to American history and what defines our evolving American culture.
I find myself reflecting on my own heritage and the profound significance my childhood table had on my upbringing in Fresh Meadows, Queens – each of the foods that graced our table, the Samovar that traveled thousands of miles from Russia to New York, and the stories that accompanied our gatherings.
As a first-generation Polish and Russian Jew, our family table held few recipes from my father’s side of the family compared to my mother’s. My father was a Holocaust survivor; he endured the horrors of Auschwitz and was forced on a death march to Dachau. Many of his family traditions died amidst the unfathomable loss of his large family; only one brother survived alongside him.
Because of his loss, my mother always ensured the table held some of his favorite foods including the pickled herring swimming in its milky white liquid with onions that primarily horrified me as a child. He would savor it with a gusto that seemed to defy the depths of his sorrow. Another staple was Gefilte fish, served annually on Passover, its jelled broth deemed palatable only by my father, as it repulsed my brothers and I. Watching him gulp it down with a large soup spoon, I couldn't help but wonder if these simple delicacies offered him a fleeting taste of the life he once knew in Poland before the war tore apart his world.
The specifics of my mother’s family and their search for refuge in the United States remain somewhat obscured. It was a consequence of how young I was before she passed away, not asking enough questions, therefore leaving me with too few answers about our family history. What I do know: their journey was one of hardship. Russian Jews fleeing amidst the turmoil of the pogroms, they carried what little possessions they could with them including one item that stands out as a symbol of hope and endurance: a brass Samovar.
That Samovar with its rich history, is more than just a piece of kitchenware, it’s a connection to a homeland left behind. It was proudly on display in my childhood living room and now holds a place of honor in my brother’s living room. For Russian Jewish refugees like my ancestors, the Samovar represented a sense of identity and belonging in a new and unfamiliar land.
Along with the Samovar, my ancestors brought their beloved recipe for stuffed cabbage. This delectable sweet and sour dish graced our table at least twice a year, a tradition that continued to be upheld without fail. Like clockwork it made an appearance each Rosh Hashanah and typically each winter with the annual visit from extended family.
During this visit, our kitchen transformed into a lively hub of activity, the aroma of the sweet sauce and boiled cabbage as my mother meticulously rolled each cabbage leaf with care. Her dedication to the dish became legendary within our family circle, and the joy it brought to our relatives gathered around the table in Queens was evident as they indulged in each bite.
When my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, her arduous journey through two surgeries and countless chemotherapy sessions signaled a fervent desire to pass down the stuffed cabbage recipe to me. As her only daughter, I carried the responsibility to be the torchbearer of our cherished culinary tradition. I vividly recall the scene: I was just 13 years old and as we rolled cabbage leaves together in the kitchen, her frail figure amidst the flurry of preparation. Each step in the process appeared to sap her strength, yet her determination to impart this legacy remained unwavering.
Almost a year after my mother's passing, my father, brothers, and I retrieved the prepared batch of stuffed cabbage from the freezer and popped it in the oven. The familiar aroma filled the kitchen and the perfectly browned cabbage with its sweet and savory raisin blend tasted just as comforting and delightful as we enjoyed it in her memory. In that moment, gathered around the table, we felt her presence, her love saturating every bite.
Reflecting on my family’s journey and the lasting impact they’ve made on my family table, I am reminded of how the power of food can bridge generations, foster understanding, preserve memories, and celebrate the resilience of the human spirit. In a world currently marked by disorder, dispute, and constant uncertainty, I hope we can find our humanity for a better tomorrow.
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