Remembering Mom: Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey, meat soup and keeping kosher
My favorite times with Mom took place around family meals on visits to my hometown of Baltimore. Mom thought she kept a strict kosher house ― her own version of kosher, that is.
You probably know that one of the kosher laws is that it’s forbidden to serve anything in the dairy (milchik) category, along with anything in the meat (fleishik) category at the same meal. Believe me; you don’t want to know why; it’s really gruesome.
And so one night, Mom served her incredible meat soup while naturally using the plateware that was for meat dishes. Dad stood, then went to the fridge where he grabbed the sour cream (dairy), which he generously dolloped on top of the meat ― a kosher no-no.
“Ooooh,” I said swooning and reaching for the sour cream.
Mom rapped my hand with the back of the ladle. “You’d eat sour cream wrapped in newspaper,” she said. “Now talk to your father. Last night he put cheese on his hamburger patty.”
“For God’s sake, Ma, everyone eats cheeseburgers.”
“Not in a kosher house they don’t.”
“But you all ate cheeseburgers at Doctor Lou’s party.”
“Doctor Lou,” she hissed, “he doesn’t know a pap smear from a throat swab. Besides, it was commanded in the Torah that a cheeseburger is kosher as long as it’s served on a paper plate.”
“You know,” I said, clearly nuts to be having this conversation, “keeping kosher isn’t necessary anymore, at least for cleanliness and safety. We’re not in the desert waiting for our dinner to come trotting by waving its cloven hooves at us so we could shoot it, clean it, and cook it over a firepit. We have kosher factories now, Ma, not tents.”
She said, “Kosher means the food was blessed by a rabbi. Have you seen any rabbis running around these factories blessing everybody’s meat?”
“Mo-ther, I once saw you drink a glass of milk with a steak dinner.”
“Saura Leah (my Hebrew name), everyone knows that what you drink with a straw doesn’t matter.”
“Mamala,” I said, teasingly, “I also happen to know you’d rather have a piece of bacon than a diamond ring. Bacon or any pork is not kosher. But you and Dad always have bacon and eggs at the not-really-kosher-though-they-say-they-are deli.”
“My sweet, naïve daughter, it is written in the Torah, ‘Thou shalt eat bacon and eggs as long as thou uses a plastic fork.’”
Inanely, I persisted. “And the last time you and Dad were on the Cape, you ate a lobster, for goodness sake.”
“That’s because shellfish is kosher ― ”
“What?”
“When you eat it outside.”
“But you brought the leftovers inside!”
“What’s inside a doggie bag is nobody’s business. That’s why they disguise it in those fancy aluminum foil swans.”
Dad piped up. “What’s for dessert?”
“I brought it,” I said. “But we can’t have it.”
“Why not?” they both screeched.
“Because ice cream is dairy and meat soup is meat. And Ma,” I said smiling, “I got your favorite ― Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. You know, with those really big gooey hunks of fudge.”
“Oh, we can eat that!” she said. “As long as we wait one hour.” (This is actually true.)
She set the kitchen timer.
In Hebrew, kosher means proper. My mother told me that keeping a kosher home is the most important part of being a Jewish woman. Yet, it was such hard work for her. On Passover, all of the plateware, utensils, and even pots and pans had to be put away and replaced with yet another two sets, one for meat dishes, and one for dairy.
Mother maintained her sacred vow to abide by the laws of the Torah. Every Friday evening before sunset, she’d preside over the ritual of reciting the customary prayer while lighting the candles. This symbolized welcoming the Sabbath ― the day of rest.
What mattered to her was that our family was together, as she kept alive this ancient tradition. She was fulfilling a sacred vow. To teach us by her example. She was our matriarch ― the officiator of the ceremony. And she welcomed her powerful mission.
The observance of Jewish practices was her calling ― her covenant with ancestors, with family, and with God. In spite of our differences, I have a profound connection with my mother.
On Mother’s Day, I will think of her with respect and admiration. And in some ways, even with envy. For in following the hallowed commandments that governed the households of Jewish families from times long ago, that govern Jewish families in present days, as well as Jewish families yet to be, she found her purpose.
I wish for mamala:
“Shabbat shalom.”
Peaceful rest.
“Zikhronah livrakha.”
May her memory be a blessing.
Award-winning columnist, Saralee Perel, lives in Marstons Mills. She can be reached at sperel@saraleeperel.com/. Her column runs the first Friday of the month.
Ma’s Meat Soup (just as she wrote it)
1 and ½ pounds of chuck or cross piece
And a few marrow bones
Onion, carrots, celery
Frozen mixed vegetables
1 small can of tomato sauce
¼ cup barley
¼ cup lima beans
(I’m assuming you cover everything with water.)
Simmer for 2 hours
Salt, pepper
About 2 tablespoons sugar
Last half hour add pealed diced potatoes, rice and broken up noodles
Serve with bread (but no butter!)
This article originally appeared on Cape Cod Times: Column/opinion: A not very kosher Mother’s Day dinner
