Smitten

Lunch-packing was never one of my parents' fortes. 30-minute meals in the evening - A+, yes.  But opening my bag lunch at school always seemed to be a bit of a disappointment.

In a sea full of specialized lunch boxes, I would have a brown bag. And in it a couple of those signature we-were-in-a-hurry this morning selections. A cold chicken patty sandwich from the night before, a leftover hunk of meatloaf, a slice of salami on squishy white bread, some baldy pretzels (those are the unsalted kind), and an overly ripe peach, plumb, or pear. My hungry eyes would invariably shift toward the pimped-out lunch that Katy unwrapped every day.

Around second grade though, the "Hot Lunch" program was rolled out. The school built a cafeteria, hired some lunch ladies and sent out a memo in the Bulletin alerting parents that their life was about to become a little bit easier. My parents immediately signed us up. There were good hot lunch days - nacho cheese day, taco salad day, pizza day for instance. But more often than not, they were bad. Really bad.

There was one week in the Spring though that brought great food. Sometime between March and April, the lunch ladies would set up a special table in the cafeteria. It was a little out of the way and a little hidden, but my mature gastronomic senses knew its presence from the moment I entered the cafeteria. That, there is NEW food!

On the table was a spread that I recognized as what my babysitter, Patty, would eat during Passover - gefilte fish, lox, hard boiled eggs, kugel, rice dishes, fruits, nuts and MATZO! LOTS of Matzo! Upon looking at what was being served as the hot lunch special du jour - Sloppy Joes - I moseyed on over to the secret table and partook. I filled up my plate with every last one of the more exotic foods, took a seat, and finally gleamed in pride at my lunch, which looked better than Katy's wax paper-wrapped double-decker chicken salad sandwich on the bread that her family had made with their new bread maker.

The next day I once again rushed over to the miniature Jewish Food Festival and went heavy on the Matzo. Midway through lunch though, midway through filling my tubby belly, the little bell in the center of the cafeteria rung, and there was an announcement:
Only Jewish people, celebrating Passover, are supposed to eat the Passover food on the table over there.
As the only non-Jewish person eating off the table, in a school of about 200 people, this announcement was obviously directed entirely at me. My stomach flipped, my cheeks blushed, and I gulped in embarrassment.

I solemnly ate my last supper, sad that I was being tossed out of the inner circle that got to eat the good hot lunch. I thought it was unfair - just another one of those circumstances where being Catholic in a predominantly Jewish community meant that I was left out. I never got to see what was inside the Seders that my neighbors set up in their yards every year; I never got to go inside one of the five Temples within a mile radius from my house; I didn't get to wear a special long kilt to school; I didn't get to set up a menorah amongst the illuminated display of Christianity that my family erected every Christmas; I wasn't going to be able to stomp on a glass, get lifted up in a chair, or dance the Horah at my wedding. I did get to go to Bagel Nosh growing up, but I wanted to experience more.


I now live in Naperville. And there seems to be a total lack of noshing in Naperville. In general, people here stick to the basics - burgers, boneless skinless chicken breasts, and bad restaurants. So every night Peter and I challenge ourselves to think outside the burbs. We explore and travel vicariously through food and have just about made it around the world and back. We're now at the point where we're revisiting and we each have our favorite destinations. Peter makes us go to Mexico quite often. (We went twice this week)

Empanadas!

Thank you Bridget!

And I make us go at least once a week, if not two or three, to a little kitchen in New York City - a kitchen that is alive and steeped in the traditions of Jewish cooking - a kitchen that feeds my fascination with Jewish culture and brings the side of Squirrel Hill that I never had full access to into my life - we go to Smitten Kitchen. 

Not that she reads my blog, but I wanted to give Deb my congratulations. This week she won Food Blog of the Year by Saveur Magazine. In my opinion she not only won for writing, adapting, and photographing a cache of wonderful recipes. But she won because she breaks down barriers with her cooking. She embraces and celebrates her culinary heritage and traditions, and challenges her readers to think outside the kitchens they were raised in. To go outside of our comfort zones; to consider calling the recipe that we grew up knowing by one name, a different one; to not just make cake, but make it a celebration cake; to turn a fascination into an understanding and love for a culture that might seem very far away, but is actually quite close to your own.  

Shakshuka!

To not just have breakfast for dinner on a Tuesday night ... but instead a traditional Israeli dish of poached eggs in a spicy tomato sauce that's called something similar to a super hero's name - Shakshuka!

Lo.