“People often ask me, ‘What is the most Jewish ingredient?’” said Naama Shefi, founder of Jewish Food Society, while holding a piece of fresh challah bread painted with remnants of red lipstick from her last bite. “I don’t think there is such a thing. But if there is, I would say it’s time.”
Shefi was standing in the middle of the Apex Lounge at Scribner’s Catskill Lodge, watching snow pile up on the windowsills. Surrounding her were Jewish and non-Jewish friends of all ages, all of whom had come together to celebrate the second annual Jewish Catskills Weekend, and to share their appreciation for the power of food to unify.
The weekend kicked off with a not-so-traditional Shabbat dinner at Fellow Mountain Cafe, the Catskills hot-spot known for its viral cinnamon buns. Trading its bistro tables for longer family-style ones, the cafe welcomed guests in with the warm glow of candlesticks and overflowing glasses of sweet wine. I attended with my younger sister, Gabi, who reminded me of our own family’s tradition of non-negotiable Shabbat dinner attendance each Friday night growing up (much to my younger self’s chagrin, since Friday night meant missing out on school events and fifth-grade birthday parties).
My mother instilled in me the importance of knowing the Shabbat prayers. She said that if I knew the blessings for the bread, the candles, and the wine, that I could go anywhere in the world and find home at a Shabbat dinner. This was proven true in the Catskills, as strangers quickly became friends. We expressed our gratitude for the meal and reflected on the week; a room of unfamiliar faces singing familiar melodies.
Dinner was cooked by Camille Becerra, a renowned chef hailing from Puerto Rico. Although not Jewish herself, Becerra holds a deep appreciation for Shabbat. “We all have our own practice of being grateful,” she said. “But there’s something about gathering to share that intention which is so special. I’m so grateful when I’m invited to a Shabbat dinner.” And invited for good reason: Becerra cooks a wonderful Shabbat meal. Tangy tomato matbucha, creamy tahini served in antique silver dishes, and pickles so tart they made my eyes squint all delighted guests at the table. The carrot and cumin salad, as well as the braised lamb with olives and harissa, were also clear favorites. (The dinner was a collection of dishes inspired by the recipes in the Jewish Food Society’s cookbook, The Jewish Holiday Table.) Around the table, guests shared familiar stories recounting their own recipes passed down l’dor vador—from generation to generation.
Carol Slutzky-Tenerowicz, a third-generation resident of the town of Hunter, sat next to me at dinner. Over crunchy spinach rissole fritters, she educated me on her mission of empowering the Jewish women of the Hunter Synagogue, where she served as president of the board for thirty years. “The only thing I knew about the Jewish religion when I was growing up was being stuck upstairs on the balcony,” she recounted. “When the men stood up and started to sing ‘Adon Olam,’ it was time to go home. When I grew up and had my own daughter, I sat in on her bat mitzvah lessons and got to learn with her.”
When she became board president, Slutzky-Tenerowicz discovered that the bylaws stated the only people eligible to serve on the board were Jewish men aged 16 to 75. “We quickly had to fix those bylaws, because I had already been president for five years,” she laughed.
Returning to our room that night, we received a stack of welcome gifts, including hats with familiar Yiddish phrases “shmoozing” and “noshing,” offering a hint of what was to come the next morning. Indeed, when we woke up for hamin brunch the next day, we shmoozed, and we certainly noshed.
While Shabbat was a common practice in my household, hamin brunch was not. Hamin is a traditional Jewish stew served on the Saturday of Shabbat. Every Jewish community across the diaspora has its own version of hamin: Iraq has t’beet with baharat spice, Morocco has dafina made with chickpeas, and Poland enjoys peppery cholent. Hamin, in any name or form it takes, is most reliant on one ingredient: time.
In the Jewish religion, working on the Sabbath is prohibited—which includes lighting a fire. The magic of hamin lies in the creativity of serving up a hearty stew without technically working. In shtetls in Eastern Europe, or towns in Tunisia, people would bring their pots to communal kitchens, setting them on the already existing fire to cook for 12 hours on a low heat. The result in the morning? A rich, umami-flavored, deeply savory stew fit to delight the masses—no “work” required.
Artist and chef Maya Yadid and her mother, Irit, served a five-generation-old hamin recipe from scalding-hot pots emitting earthy aromas. Although the recipe was an heirloom, the tablescape was altogether more modern. Whimsical flowers sprouted out of squash and eggplants that were strewn across the table. A vibrant hot-pink jug sat in the middle of the room—a pickled radish watering hole, both a visual and edible delight.
The next morning, waking up to a warm fire burning in the lodge and the smell of fresh coffee from a pot, we joined the spiritual learning class led by the philosophy teacher Chaya Gilboa. She read four Jewish theology passages surrounding food, including one story considering the ethics of celebrating with food even in the shadow of deep tragedy. The passage felt especially profound in the wake of the tragic attack on Jews in Australia celebrating Hanukkah. Someone in the group offered a solution of continuing to practice holiday traditions, but to leave a bite of food untouched on the plate as a symbol of empathy—the culinary equivalent of flying a flag half-mast.
A Latkes and Martinis soiree closed out the weekend. Chef Vilda Gonzalez put her own spin on the potato pancake, offering three variations: Fishwife smoked mackerel and creme fraiche, quince butter and stracchino cheese, and my personal favorite, the braised short rib latke. Guests raised their anchovy dirty martinis to the center of the table, toasting to Jewish joy.
Finally, we queued up in the cozy Scribner’s lobby to taste donuts from Elbow Bread Bakery and Sparrowbush (the golden cornbread donut and the jelly donut mimicking “sufganiyot” were packed with flavor and warmth).
Bidding adieu to my new multigenerational group of friends, I was once again struck by the ability of food to connect people to each other, but also to ourselves. We debated whose bubbie makes the best matzo balls, or how someone’s family gefilte fish recipe is integral to their heritage; traditions preserved through taste and time.
“It’s all about knowing where we came from in order to reinvent and to move forward,” Shefi reflected. “You can’t just exist in the world without knowing your context and your history. We carry such powerful stories and resilience. We need to honor them with pride, make them our own, and invite everyone to the table.”
When we got back to the city, Gabi and I lit the menorah in the window, shared a first-night-of-Hanukkah takeout dinner, and quietly left one bite behind on our plates.
