When Worlds Wind and Wander

There is always something better about mom’s cooking. If I made the exact same thing and used the exact same recipe, she made it better. Brisket, matzo ball soup, knishes, there was something she added that I never did. It wasn’t until I moved to Europe that I learned the ingredient my mother used: love. Unadulterated passion and joy for the food she made.
The staples of my family’s heritage are Ashkenazi: Jewish Eastern European. To a child growing up in Los Angeles, the “the old country” was not relatable. I watched my mom poor beer onto brisket and soak potato fillings for knishes in a mixture of chicken stalk and chicken fat, as she had watched her grandmother do. While visiting Budapest in the winter of 2006-2007, I learned the importance of the quintessential heaviness to the traditional food that I grew up eating. It was about comfort and the flavor of home, a flavor that would remind you of the warm fire, of the chair you sat in, of the family meals. The fatty, richness of the potato filling, mixed with the flaky crust of the outer dough was inviting, and kept you warm on the cold winter night. More importantly, it’s substantial. It’s a delicious welcomed rock that you placed at the bottom of your stomach. And you wanted it there. Greetings were always friendly and portions were always large.
Growing up with heavy Eastern European cuisine taught me more than I realized about my family heritage. I learned about the climate, the large portions for sharing, the constant familial receptions, the importance of understanding why you’re cooking. I stuffed myself with flavors from home and couldn’t decide who had taught me more, my mother for introducing these foods to me, or the cook that led me to understand them. Neither teacher had spared the love that made the difference in their food. Mom’s cooking is still better than mine. But now I know not just how to cook it, but why to love it.