Apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah, Jewish New Year, symbolise the hope for a good and sweet year ahead.

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..

(Unetaneh Tokef)

 

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!

 

Apples and Honey on Rosh Hashanah

Apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, symbolise the hope we harbour for a good and sweet year ahead.

Passover food as depicted on the Passover seder plate

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

Hoppers London - where bone marrow varuval has me howling to the moon

 

“The White Witch? Who is she?”
“Why.. it’s she that makes it always winter. Always winter, and never Christmas..”

The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. C.S. Lewis, 1950.

 

“At this moment you should be with us,
Feeling like we do.. like you love to
But never will again.
I miss you my dear, Xiola.
I prepared the room tonight with christmas lights,
A city of candles…”

Three Days, Jane’s Addiction, 1990

 

My childhood winters were cold Northern affairs. Stretching across the horizon, the distant Pennines lay dark and brooding, looming over Bury like a dormant dragon, its arched back frosted with fairy-dust snow. There, we’d take our sledges and run them down those Lancashire slopes, fast and true: the icy air stinging our watery eyes, the sledge barely skimming the snowy ground below. We were Peter Pan, we were Tinkerbell.

Of all the seasons, Winter kindled the imagination the most: a twilight zone where reality and fairytale would come together before waltzing off into a blur. Each evening, with the garden shrouded in dusk and the air stifled by unearthly silence, we’d joyously roll about in the crunching snow, crafting igloos out of ice-bricks, crawling into these dens safe and snug from the creatures lurking just beyond..

..Then comes a mother’s call. A warm embrace. The sound of water splashing in a distant room. Steam slipping underneath a bathroom door. I’d leap into the bath, my goose-bumped skin ablaze with the sudden heat.

View Post

Yom Kippur is a Jewish fast day, and so there is no dish for the road today!

Well today’s dish for the road is.. nothing. Nowt. Nicht. Nada. The big zero. An empty vacuum. An event horizon. Infinity minus itself. There’s no cronut, hopper, or shakshuka to review. No flavour, aroma, or presentation to report. The ‘score out-of-10’ is not even nought: there is no score out-of-10. For on Wednesday is Yom Kippur, a Jewish fast day, when one reflects on the past year and atones for all the bad stuff.  View Post

Charoset, the stalwart of the Passover seder plate, and the various recipes which can be used.

Jewish cuisine. To some, an oxymoron. To others, the warmest cosiest hug your stomach could ever have.

Either way, laden with heavy carbs and cloying fat, regular consumption guarantees a lifetime of Gaviscon dependency, with the very real possibility of major cardiovascular surgery by the time you’re 60. Or even 50. View Post