Today was Passover, and while normally this means dinner at my mom and stepdad's, instead, we zoomed with the whole family, and had a makeshift Seder. As you can probably tell from my post about Palm Sunday, I was raised Catholic. But when Bryan and my mom began dating, and eventually got married, we embraced the Jewish traditions and holidays as a family, and Passover is always a favorite (largely because of my affinity for the matzah balls Bryan makes). Passover is also a sacred holiday about perseverance, survival, and family, something we can all appreciate these days.
So while we couldn't hold fast to the food traditions of the day, largely due to lack of food delivery, and a limit on ordering, we were able to have the spirit of the Seder, celebrating with our family (via Zoom) and telling the story of Passover to the children. We had some substitutions for the food- I pulled off the hardboiled eggs, but we used carrot peels for the "bitter," hid our version of afikoman- instead of matzah, we hid a Tagalong and Samoa from our Girl Scout Cookie stash- and had homemade sweet apple bread for the charoses (alas, it did rise, but again, we're working with what we had).
The apple bread had been our morning project. It was bigger than that, though, as it was a recipe from a special cookbook my Grandma Bea gifted me when I was 21. At that point, my dad had been gone for two years, I was about to wrap up my junior year of college (and graduate one semester later- I joke I got "time off for good behavior), and I was feeling sentimental with so much change in my life.
I don't drink, and so when asked what I wanted for my birthday, I responded with "I'd love a book of family recipes." Cooking had provided a distraction when my dad had died- we received fruit basket after fruit basket, and I found myself cooking pies almost every day for the people who flowed continuously through our house. I would carefully peel and core the apples (or similarly prep whatever other fruit was around), methodically cut them into pieces, toss with sugar and melted margarine, and top with a crumble made from oats, butter, flour, and sugar. It was repetitive work, but it was something I could depend on, knowing that if I put things in the right order, followed the directions, the end result would be comforting.
Baking today had a similar impact. I haven't made my apple bread recipe in ages, but the girls were eager to bake, and I wanted something that would be both delicious and use some of the fresh fruit we had delivered last week. I haven't been cooking anything other than the essentials, as we want to ration what we have since we have no clue when we will next be able to get grocery deliveries (every slot is filled for the local shops for the next several weeks- I've gotten creative, but don't want to take unnecessary chances just to have something sweet).
Apple bread seemed like a good compromise, and R. carefully measured and poured each of the dry ingredients, mixing them together with a fork. She then broke in the egg, added the applesauce and melted butter, and I peeled, cored, and chopped two Granny Smith apples and a Honeycrisp. We folded the apples in, and then I carefully transferred the mixture to a pan for baking.
While we worked, I told them about the recipes in the book- some of them from Grandma Bea, in her perfect round cursive. There are a number that are my mom's or came from her cookbooks, and they were somewhat disappointed to not find Nana's meatball recipe in there (their favorite food, but as a vegetarian for well over a decade- with the exception of pregnancy- I don't usually keep meat recipes). There are more that I found over the years in magazines, or adapted from friends (like German Pancakes from my best friend's mom, which the girls wanted to try, but require lemons we don't currently have). I told them what croustades are (mini quiches that my mom makes and I count among my favorite holiday foods), and that spinach pie is what I made the other night.
I think it's important to pass on family traditions like cooking to my children. As Easter fast approaches, I'm well aware that for the first time since I was a small child, I won't be making Easter Pies (Pizza Rustica) to share with my family. When I was little, my NonNon (great grandmother) would make them, inserting hunks of salami and ham. When she passed, my cousin Jennie and I each started to create them, mine a vegetarian version with the same dozen or so eggs and cheeses, hers with the meat). One of my proudest moments was when my Pop-Pop (NonNon's son) tried mine, teared up, and with his voice cracking, said "it tastes just like NonNon's."
While I did yoga, the house filled with the smell of caramelizing apples and sugar. The girls consistently checked on the oven and the timer, and Jeff came in, proud to show us that the first beans were blooming in the greenhouse. After all sampling the apple bread and agreeing that we should definitely make it in the future, we spent a few hours outside, embracing the warm sunshine that peeked through the late afternoon. There was family soccer, the girls swinging on the swingset, and installing some lights on the house that we've been meaning to put up.Hours later, we all sat down in the living room, reciting the prayers and "four questions", and answering questions the girls had about Passover. Surrounded by my family, with my brothers and sister, brother-in-law and sisters-in-law and niece and nephews on the screen, Popum speaking in Hebrew and mom translating in English, I took in my family. We may be in different states, isolated in our houses, but the love we have for each other shines through. And at the end of the day, that's the most important part of family.
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