Passover 101: A Gentile's Guide To Setting A Seder, Lesson 1

For someone who was raised Catholic, I'm a pretty good cultural Jew. In fact I've got the Tsimmes to prove it. But, eleven and a half years ago? Oy. I didn't know my dibbuk from my pupik. And I certainly didn't know my Sephardi from my Ashkenazi... 

It was Spring, 1998, and I was participating in my first seder since Lon and I had become a couple. Eager to contribute to the table I made what I thought was a perfect side dish - a bowl of beautiful peas tossed in olive oil with leeks. To me it said "spring" and "fresh" and "garden." But to everyone else? It said "goy." 

"What's that?" someone asked as the dish was passed down the table after the Haggadot were put away and the festive meal had begun. 

"Peas and leeks," I said, proudly. 

A few people looked at me, then at each other. Dishes were paused, mid-pass. There was silence. And then....

"Peas and leeks?" someone asked. "That's not a Passover dish. [Pause... pause... wait for it... wait for it...] That's a punch line waiting for a joke!" 

Laughter all around. I think I heard someone say "I don't get it...?" The meal resumed. 

I laugh when I remember that night now, but at the time I was crushed. People laughed warmly, and excused my oversight, but I felt I'd let Lon down by not first asking if legumes were kosher for Passover before I made the dish. It didn't help that my attempts at assimilation continued to fail when, while clearing dishes at the seder's end, I blew out the candles. A few gasps met my blunder. 

"Is this your first seder," a guest asked, seeing my reaction. I could only answer glumly: "Isn't it obvious?" 

"You did fine," she said as she helped me clear the table. "Didn't I hear you say you were Catholic?" 

"Yes." 

"Well. You'll pick all of this up soon enough," she smiled, before offering, "You know, Catholics make the best Jews." 

I appreciated the sentiment and her kindness. I don't know if I agreed with her then, but over ten years on, I understand what she meant now. And I do pride myself on being a good cultural Jew. I've taken to calling myself a Cashew - a term a friend of mine who is also a Catholic married to a Jew coined for people like ourselves in dual-faith relationships. 

If anything I take comfort in knowing the frustration of feeling like you've failed your spouse when you don't immediately grasp the nuances of their holidays goes both ways: One year my brother-in-law Seth told us that his wife, Julie, was disappointed with the Christmas tree he'd brought home to decorate. His response? "Well this is what happens when you send a Jew do a Gentile's job." 

And that's what I've learned. When all else fails, laugh. And then eat. Just make sure you let the candles burn out on their own. 

Tsimmes Recipe 

1 lb carrots, peeled, sliced diagonally

2 medium-sized sweet potatoes, peeled, cut into cubes

1 lb dates, pitted (be careful to remove any stem that might still be attached)

1 yellow onion, chopped

4 cloves garlic, chopped

2 TBS olive oil

4 cups of water

Juice of 2 oranges

Juice of 1 lemon, seeds strained out

1/4 tsp saffron strands

2 tsp ground ginger

1 tsp cardamom

1 tsp coriander

2 sticks of cinnamon

4 tsp kosher salt 

2 TBS honey 

1. Heat oil over medium flame in pan large enough to hold about 12 cups. When oil is hot, add onion. Saute until soft, then add garlic. Cook for about a minute. Add carrots and cook with the onions, stirring frequently until coated. Add potatoes and cook about five minutes, stirring often. 

2. Pour in the water and add saffron. Bring just to a boil. Add cinnamon sticks. Turn heat down to a simmer. Add the ginger, cardamom, coriander and salt. Stir well. Continue simmering to help reduce water. Cook until carrots and sweet potatoes are just easily pierced with a fork, but not completely soft the whole way through. 

3. Stir in orange juice, lemon juice and honey. Mix well. Add dates, turn off heat, and cover. Allow to sit for ten minutes. Serve. 

TIP: I find that when adding honey to a recipe that it's best to first break it down a little. I usually heat it over a flame with the other liquids that I'm putting in the dish. For instance for the tsimmes, I poured the fresh-squeezed orange and lemon juice into a metal mixing bowl and sat it directly on my stove top. Over a very low flame, I stirred in the honey until it blended well with the juices. 

NOTES: This is a mash-up of a traditional carrot tsimmes with a traditional tagine. From the tagine I plucked the saffron, dates and lemon. To the traditional carrot tsimmes I added sweet potato, and left out the prunes and raisins. I like prunes, or dried plums or whatever you want to call them, but I find that they can leave a very specific fermented, earthy flavor that I don't always want in my dishes. But substitute as your preferences dictate. 

I Aint No Challah Back Girl....

... and I'm not a baker either. In fact, these beautiful loaves of challah are one of the reasons baking intimidates me, as do bakers. These incredible loaves were baked, on the fly, by a woman we met Friday night. The fact she was moving the next morning, and still had boxes to pack, didn't deter her from getting into the kitchen and creating these masterpieces.

Yes, I'm gushing, but you would've, too. Still warm, they gave off a slight scent of citrus as they were placed on the cutting board. 

"Is that lemon?" one person asked, leaning in and taking a whiff. "Did you make those?" asked another.

"Yes, the recipe called for Meyer lemon. And yes," answered Jessica, the woman responsible for these creations. 

The nonchalance of her replies, and the seeming ease of her efforts astounded me. I pictured her, surrounded by flattened cardboard and rolls of packing tape, grating lemon zest in her kitchen as the clock ticked out the final hours in her apartment. That image made me smile. I immediately liked her. So what if a Uhaul was coming at ten o'clock the next morning. So what if dishes and glasses and mixing bowls and measuring cups were still sitting on their shelves. Movers? Shmovers. There was bread to be baked. 

The waft of fresh bread went through the party, and so did the buzz: "Is that challah?" "Did she make that herself?" "Oh my gawd, it's homemade challah!" 

When the first loaf was sliced a quick taste test proved the hype was justified. While it was not as eggy as the challah I'm used to, this bread had major star-power. The Meyer lemon was perfectly balanced by a large, coarse-grain finishing salt. (It could have been rock salt, it was definitely too big for kosher salt. I'm kicking myself now for not asking.) It was perfection.

People started congregating, having followed the aroma into the room where the bread, and not the wine that we came to taste, was now the main attraction. 

"Have you tried the challah?" I said to my neighbor Joey. It was more of a directive than a question. As he reached for a sliced he looked over his shoulder and asked "Are you Jewish?" 

I didn't know how to answer. I didn't want to be called out as a poser. But the truth is there are times I wish I could answer "Yes, I am Jewish." Just like there are times when I wish I could answer "Yes, I am an Arab, North African in fact," or "Yes, I am Asian, well, sort of, on my Mom's side, Japanese, four generations back."

The unifying theme in all of these Walter Mitty-ish daydreams of mine involve food. I dream of serving dinner guests a shabu-shabu pot, or making the perfect harrisa, or setting the perfect seder. 

I was yanked out of my culinary revery by Joey, who was still waiting for an answer.

"No," I admitted sheepishly. "I'm just an Honorary Heeb. And I have the shirt to prove it." (I do, really, thanks HEEB magazine.) 

"Sure sure, I get it," was Joey's reply. He took a bite of the bread, and his eyebrows raised. I nodded knowingly. "Amazing, isn't it?" I asked, but he couldn't answer. His face said it all: He was on a challah high.

As everyone dug into, and clearly dug, the challah, I got a giddy rush witnessing how something like food can unite people. Or at least bring them together. On this particular Friday evening, at a house party in San Francisco, you couldn't have asked for a more diverse group. As people hovered near the cutting board, I could hear conversations starting, and introductions being made. "Is this your first time here?" "Which wine have you tried" "By the way, my name is..." 

The proverbial ice was being broken. Strangers were breaking bread.