attended our holiday soirees, but there was very little
religious ceremony. There was Joyce, the numerologist,
who would tell all of us at the party, including me, our
destiny for the year to come. (She did this by totaling
the numbers in our names.) Tandy, the psychic, would
channel spirits and would often bring a Ouija board
in case there were loved ones who had passed during
the year with whom we wanted to make peace. Michael,
a member of the Actors Studio, would give historical
speeches on the Old Testament, even though he was
not Jewish. And, of course, there was my little sister
April and me. I would proudly serve my homemade
creations, and April would play the piano while every-
one would sit cross-legged on my parents’ Persian rug
blurting out original lyrics to her rhythms.

It was only when I was invited to spend a holiday
weekend with my best 5th grade friend that I realized
how unusual my family’s holidays really were. During
dinner, classical music played softly in the background,
and the table was set with fine linen and gold-rimmed
plates. Before we ate, we held hands and my friend’s
dad made a prayer in Hebrew over the wine and challah
bread. I loved how her father spoke, as he explained
the meaning of each ritual. The blowing of the shofar,
the throwing of bread in the water, the dipping of the
apples in the honey, and the reason we would soon be
fasting for Yom Kippur.

When I told my mom about my wonderful week-
end, she said it reminded her of her own holidays grow-
ing up. She remembered how my grandmother Beauty
would iron the tablecloth, polish the silverware, grate
the potatoes for the latkes by hand, and debate for
weeks whether to make a sweet kugel with raisins or a
savory kugel with broccoli.

She remembered how Beauty would hold her hand
as they stirred and tested the chicken soup with her
big wooden spoon that hung over the stove, and how
my grandfather Papa would get so excited when he
walked in the door and smelled all of the food. My
mom’s face softened as she spoke, and I began to cry.

I was not sure why I cried. I am not sure if I cried
because my mother seemed so different at that mo-
ment, or if I cried because I wanted her to hold my
hand and love cooking with me as much as my grand-
mother did with her. I wanted my mom to understand
the things that were so important to me, and I wanted
her to nurture me in a way that maybe she couldn’t.

But it was the beginning of a the Jewish New Year;
so instead of wanting my mom to be someone other
than who she was, I passed her one of Beauty’s recipe
cards before we both recited in unison her famous
words, “ You know you can find your heritage in a bowl
of chicken soup! ”
The following is reprinted from My Fat Dad: A
Memoir of Food, Love, and Family, with Recipes, from
Berkeley Books.

GRANDMA BEAUTY’S
CHICKEN SOUP WITH A KICK
Yield: 12 servings
Chicken soup, known as “Jewish penicillin,” is an es-
sential recipe for all grandmothers and mothers to have
26 THE GUIDE 2016/2017