This year Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) begins at sundown on Friday, September 18 and ends at nightfall on Sunday September 20. On Friday evening and Saturday Jews around the world observe this holiest of holidays ending 10 days later with Yom Kippur.
During these Jewish holidays we traditionally attend synagogue in prayer repenting the sins of our past year and making peace with those we may have wronged in order to begin a new and sweeter year for ourselves, our family, friends, community and the world.
Families gather at sundown on Rosh Hashanah for traditional meals and depending upon your origin, whether eastern Europe (Ashkenazi), southern Europe (Sephardic), or Mid-Eastern, the menus may consist of fish, meat, poultry, vegetable, grains, soup, kugels, knishes, and always the sweet - a round challah , an apple dipped in honey all symbolizing the sweetness of life - and ALL prepared, every year by Grandma.
My memories of my family celebrations are rich with the pungent aroma of her filling meals. Just opening the lobby door of my grandparents apartment building in Williamsburg, Brookyn or, on alternate years in the Bronx, brought the familiar mixture of smells of chicken soup, brisket, the baking of gefilte fish, challah and cookies. My apronned grandmother who probably cooked all week, stood with sweat on her brow stirring pots, ladling, and shuffling pans of delicious food to serve in her cramped living room at an elongated family table (supplemented with wooden bridge tables and chairs) set for at least 13. Unless you were seated nearest to the kitchen the only way to leave the crowded table would be by crawling under it. Since the men were the least likely to be helping they occupied these pinned positions and we, the children, along with our mothers and aunts would be responsible for carrying the hot bowls of soup, finding room for the endless platters of everything else - and of course, clearing and again passing the dishes.
I can't remember a moment when my grandmother actually sat down. She was the Chef du Jour and Maitre 'D. She was responsible for who wanted what and supervised as the women shlepped back and forth between her kitchen and table and back again.
My younger cousin and I were always "the chosen" dishwashers. There was no dishwasher! - just kosher soap, sponge and plenty of dish towels. Standing on a step stool I would wash, Sheri would dry and though under the scrutiny of our mothers, we never failed to splash flood the linoleum floor and soak ourselves, all the while popping cookies in our mouths as dessert was making its way on to platters. Sheri and I laugh even today recalling my grandmother's Yiddish rants as she mopped up.
One of my best memories was, needing to burn off the meal, repeatedly jumping on and off my grandparent's bed. The slatted bed would inevitably collapse, bringing my grandfather and father, cigars in hand, rushing in to admonish and reset the bed. That I can remember, it was their only role.
After consuming ridiculous amounts of delicious food, belly laughs, and a few courses of "normal" family drama, we would leave Brooklyn, stuffed like pigs to the gills, for the long ride back to Queens (the only time my father consented to ride on a holiday.) We carried with us those same smells we encountered when we arrived - once back at home needing seltzer, Alka Seltzer or Pepto Bismol to help digest the Rosh Hashanah meal and evening with our family.
We carry with us traditions, share memories and create new ones as we celebrate each year.
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