Wall Street traders. Space Invaders. Arcade dreams. Custard creams. Kylie and Jason. Thatcher and Reagan. HP sauce. Inspector Morse.
Band Aid. Live Aid. Cherry-ade. Kwik Save. HIV, MTV, TUC, SDP. Del Boy and Rodney. Deirdre on Corrie. Just Say No. Farmer Barleymow.
Striking miners. Flash designers. Berlin wall. Maradona’s handball. Virgin Atlantic. Sticky-backed plastic. Baywatch beach. Papa Don’t Preach.
Big hair. Polo necks. BHS. VHS. ET. BT. Mr T. Ford Capri. Donkey Kong and Pac Man. Now it’s Captain Caveman! Scooby Dooby Doo, Where are you?
Ahh, the ‘80s.. That deeply-troubled decade of social inequality and oversized shoulder pads. And what of it? Why is my mind suddenly cast there?
Because right now I’m looking at a menu at Chez Bruce – a well-regarded restaurant on the verge of Wandsworth Common – and standing out from the text like a flashing blue siren from an ’80’s police procedural, is a word that takes me right back to that very decade: “Viennetta”…
I remember when it all came to an end. I was 13 years old, much older than I cared to admit to my friends at the time. And when it was all over, my dad and I took a while to come to terms with our shared loss.
For that was the moment – sorely conflicted, but with my mind decidedly made-up – that I told my dad the time had come: from now on, there’d be no more bedtime stories. View Post
“On Rosh Hashanah it is inscribed,
How many will pass and how many are born,
Who shall live and who shall die..
Who shall rest and who shall wander..”
As you can probably tell from this ancient verse, the Jewish version of New Year ain’t some breezy rendition of Auld Lang Syne, cheeky kiss at midnight, and fleeting resolution to give up chocolate. No, Rosh Hashanah is a very different kettle of (gefilte) fish.
It’s Judaism’s annual Day of Judgment no less, when one’s deeds are scrutinised, divine judgement is meted out, and our fates become sealed for the year ahead. It’s like having an annual appraisal with God, but with more guilt and less biscuits.
And as such, Jewish New Year is less an excuse for a knees-up, and more a deeply solemn day of reflection: a day of scrupulously looking back over the year, dutifully recalling one’s past deeds, and endeavouring to make your next-year version an upgrade on the current one. Even for someone like me, whose Jewish identity is more cultural than religious, it can still have a strong resonance.
It can be particularly emotive as it’s also a time for remembering people no longer with us. And for me, that’s none other than my late, great Auntie Ruth..
(Oh, Auntie Ruth. How best to describe you? How best to conjure your spirit and your verve?..)
My association of Auntie Ruth with Rosh Hashanah goes back to the festive family gatherings she’d host each year. Immaculate spreads she put out too – big briny balls of homemade gefilte fish and sweet n’ sour slivers of home-pickled cucumbers being my perennial favourites.
That the same dishes appeared year after year didn’t detract at all – in fact it only served to instil the timelessness of the occasion. Meanwhile, Auntie Ruth would buzz about, an ebullient little honey bee dropping in from person to person, catching up with everybody’s news.
Auntie Ruth was undoubtedly a force of nature, a bundle of fizz, a pocket whirlwind. Even in her later years – and despite the deep loss of her husband many years before – she never lost her spirit, her strength of character, her warmth, her optimism, or the sheer love she had for those around her.
In her, such qualities were quite colossal. They were especially pronounced since they were packed into what was admittedly a rather tiny frame, something she herself would often jest about. Even when the tip of her thumb had to be removed to treat a growing tumour, she’d just shrug with a telling – “well, now I’m even tinier!” – and smile on.
I’m sure such events were actually incredibly tough for her – as a great nephew, I didn’t know her as intimately as her own immediate family or closest friends, so I rarely saw her that troubled or upset. But despite her own experience of grief and pain – or maybe in part because of it – she was also always deeply supportive to my own family, and particularly when we went through some tough times of our own.
Indeed, when I was growing up, she’d be a regular at our house. Even after I’d left home for university, she’d always make a point of dropping by every time I was up. She’d keenly ask how I was getting on, what I was up to, and gently scold my mum whenever she’d enquire into my (admittedly rather scant) love life – telling her it’s ‘none of her business’ and to ‘leave the poor boy alone’ – whilst then cheekily pry herself once my mum had left the room.
Well, you certainly could never accuse Auntie Ruth of beating around the bush. Instead, she’d torpedo said bush with a lash from her tongue and a mischievous glint in her eye. But as refreshingly blunt and cheeky as she often was, she was never discourteous or rude, and her humour was just wonderful. I was always deeply touched by her visits.
Auntie Ruth sadly died some years ago now. But despite this, every time I visit Manchester, especially around Rosh Hashanah time, she always comes to mind so vividly. In fact, her vivacious nature was just so strong, her presence so welcome, that I sometimes even forget she’s no longer around.
In these moments, she’s ringing on the doorbell, and we’re doing our customary bear-hug, laughing as her feet dangle unceremoniously in mid-air. And I ask if she’s made gefilte-fish this year, and she lets slip a little wink and a grin.
So yes, for me, Rosh Hashanah is about looking back. Feeling the past. Being reminded of Auntie Ruth. But – and it’s an important but – if there’s one thing about Auntie Ruth, it is that she wasn’t someone who overly lingered on the past, dwelling on this or that. No, she was one to get on with things, to look forward, to embrace life and the future with all the energy and optimism she could muster.
And it’s this same spirit of hope and positivity that’s also captured by the apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah that she’d serve year after year, a conspicuous ritual of the festive meal, and probably the most recognisable of all the symbolic foods of Judaism.
As a child, apples and honey effectively were Rosh Hashanah. Never mind all that long drawn-out prayer-mumbling in synagogue – the festival truly came alive at that first bite of fruit after it’s been dipped into thick syrupy nectar.
And it also awakened in me a fascination of how flavours and textures can combine to make something more than the sum of its parts. That marrying something crisp and tart with something sweet and syrupy somehow brings out the best of both.
And indeed, this is reflected in their symbolism too – the apples to remind us to aspire towards goodness, the honey to harbour hope of sweet things to come. One is about what we can do, what we can change, what we can work at; the other’s about what’s beyond our control, but how nevertheless we must never lose our hope.
It’s a bit like the much-quoted Serenity Prayer – “grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference” – except it’s a Jewish version, so it has to involve food.
Goodness and hope. Here is Judaism finally looking forward. At its most upbeat. Never mind the past, the fruit and nectar seem to say – look towards the future. Nay, embrace the future! Don’t forget who you are, but still strive to be the best you can be; work hard in all that you do and stand for; and never cease to love and care for those around you.
Just like my Auntie Ruth used to do.
If you liked this piece, you may be interested in my tribute to my late Grandma Beryl – and her incredible chicken soup. Meanwhile, for more on the significance of apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah, here’s a post you may enjoy from Poppy And Prune. And finally, whether you’re one to eat apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah or not, just wishing you a hearty ‘Shanah Tovah’ – a good and sweet year ahead!
Food memories. They’re possibly the most powerful memories we have. There’s some science behind it – our perception of food is primarily streamed through our nasal olfactory system, a region of the brain closely associated with long-term memory. But beyond the biology, food memories form such a large part of our own life story, they cannot help but evoke a potent sense of longing and reminiscence. The weekend roast. Our first sip of wine. School pudding. (I didn’t say all memories had to be good, mind you!)
When we recollect a food memory, we are remembering a time in our lives that food made meaningful. Alternatively, food memories may emerge because of their association with a particular person, place or time. However they became, whatever their provenance, they’re then woven into our tapestry of experience and assimilated into our own life story. And there they remain, little nuggets that we stumble upon again and again.
For me, my fondest and most indelible food memories relate to the week-long Jewish festival of Passover. There’s a myriad of reasons for me why Passover food elicits such an emotive reaction, all of which inter-connect like an intricate dance. View Post
In so many ways, Grandma Beryl was the matriarch of our family and a wise dignified figurehead. She was almost always immaculately turned out, her hair a halo of wispy-white cotton-candy with not a strand out of place. Her elocution was invariably poised and precise, graced with a slight Mancunian lilt, and as mellifluous as any a Radio 4 presenter.
Through the best part of ninety years, us children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren would congregate at Grandma’s each week, her home bursting alive with the sighs and squeals of newborn babies, the pitter-patter of toddler feet, children trampolining on the sofa, kids taking penalty kicks in the lounge, and grown-ups sporadically crying out “Mind the ornaments!”, all accompanied by the constant clang and clatter of cutlery and plates as they materialised on and off the dining-room table.
Of course she loved all this, the hubbub of family coming together. And ultimately she yearned for nothing more than her family to be happy and well. To that end, she connected deeply with each and every one of us, like the gravitational pull of a warm radiating sun round which all our lives orbited.
And when it came to my Grandpa Reuben, well she was beyond devoted. He’d been her rock, and she his; a husband she’d lovingly served in an old-fashioned way, a couple and a home steeped in Jewish tradition. (“Call me old-fashioned” was in fact her favourite refrain.) But even after he died, the family would continue to come, week after week, and she remained the constant, the glue, the fabric, by which our family were reassuringly held.
On second thoughts, ‘matriarch’ isn’t quite right. The word conjures up images of haughtiness and detachment which couldn’t be further from the truth when it came to Grandma Beryl. She was a warm, loving, generous soul, totally unassuming, always smiling, gentle in her humility, yet strong in her own way.
A real ‘people person’, she loved snatching a conversation here and there, with everyone and anyone, from taxi-drivers to Big Issue sellers. And she was naturally gifted with a wonderful sense of humour, somehow both knowingly cheeky and yet brilliantly bone-dry, radiant even until her very last days.
For 10th October 2016 was her very last day, when her life was no more and she was finally at peace. View Post