Kitchen Wisdom

This piece comes from Rabbi Dara Frimmer, of Temple Isaiah in Los Angeles. It was in part inspired by her work on the Hazon Food Conference executive committee and the work she’s been doing to create a healthier and more sustainable world for all.

Growing up, our kitchen was the room of gathering. It did not have the most comfortable chairs. No fine artwork decorated the walls. And yet, something about the kitchen drew people in and kept them together. As it turns out, some of my best learning took place in the kitchen.

The kitchen was a place to test out authority, to challenge tradition, to practice assertiveness:

Why do we keep 2 sets of dishes, but we eat Chinese food on paper plates? How come Laura, my babysitter, can have a glass of milk with dinner, but I can’t? If we eat crab cakes in Cape Cod, what’s the point of keeping a Kosher home? “We’re doing it for your Bubbe and Zaide in Brooklyn,” said my mother. “So they feel comfortable when they come to visit.” “We’re doing it because I said so,” replied my father. “When you’re older, you can make your own decisions.”

And so I did. I entered Stanford University with a strong critique of my Jewish identity: It felt hypocritical, fractured, non-responsive to questions of relevance, justice and inclusivity. For years, I studied other religions, in awe of their ability to reinterpret and reframe ancient traditions. And then someone taught me about eco-kashrut, a language that united food, justice and holiness. Eco-Kashrut suggests that the health and wages of farmers, day-laborers, and restaurant employees should be factored into the kosher-certification process. Environmental impact matters. Treatment of animals matter. Amidst these debates of tradition and innovation, I felt as though I was back in my childhood kitchen: Questioning. Curious. Engaged.

The kitchen taught me about my parents:

It was clear that my mother and father had very different ways of handling food. My mother followed recipes. Line by Line. All ingredients were placed on the counter ahead of time. Measuring spoons and cups close at hand. Timer ready. Kitchen sink clear. She was deliberate. Cautious. Ritualistic. She was loyal to her favorite recipes: for kugel, for fish, for matzo ball soup. She made notes in the margins of cookbooks: “Serves 8 not 10!” and “Perfect for Passover!” Seated around the kitchen table, she would ask, “How was your day?”– an addition she included every night as if it was the final line of the recipe.

My father, my his memory be a blessing, was her foil. He would commandeer the kitchen on special occasions. He’d tear recipes out of the New York Times. Sometimes a few lines would be missing. The flame would be heating up the pan of oil, as he rustled through the cabinets looking for ingredients. Spices were measured by pouring them into his hand and then emptying them into the pot. Food was tasted and sampled and adjusted along the way. Sauces spattered across the stovetop and tiles. Culinary magic and mystery came at the cost of a few mistakes. Sometimes we ended up at a restaurant for dinner. Failure was simply a part of the process.

My kitchen teaches me about myself:

Today, I line my kitchen counter with glass jelly jars, filled with beans and barley and quinoa and peas. They stand in a row, in perfect order. Recipes are clipped by magnet onto the fridge. Sometimes I follow them. Sometimes not. I measure in cups and spoons, and in-between pinched fingers and open palms. I try to remember that the experience of cooking – all of the smells, the textures, the shapes, the colors – the experience is as important as the final product. I try to take a moment before the first bite to bless the food that sits before me, the friends who have joined me, and the life that has carried me up until this moment.

Back in the days of the Temple, our ancestors would make pilgrimages to Jerusalem 3 times a year. 3000 years later, many of us find ourselves in a similar pattern. We visit our Temple a few times a year, seeking connection, a spark of holiness, a glimpse of the Divine. After the Temple was destroyed in 70 CE, the next generation of leaders called rabbis reinvented Judaism to survive without the central site of worship. Each home became a Temple. Each table became an altar. Each person became a priest. Our daily prayers served in place of sacrifices. Our braided challah on Friday nights became the sacred Sabbath offering.

We do not have to wait for our yearly pilgrimages to experience a spark of holiness. Invite over some family or friends and share some food…and some company…and some creativity…and some stories. Sit around the kitchen table and share some wisdom. Some of my best learning took place in the kitchen – what about you?