food: a diary
DESCRIPTION
Food: is it solely sustenance, or is there more to it than that?TRANSCRIPT
Food for Thought
Food: is it simply sustenance, or is there more to it than that? In all cultures, food has
significance that goes beyond nourishment. People from all places and all times are united by food. It is
a fundamental need and pleasure of human existence. Food is the common unifier; no matter if you are
a wealthy merchant from the Islamic World or a Zhou Dynasty Chinese potter, food is an essential part
of your everyday life. Food means sustenance and survival; conviviality, family, and hospitality. It is a
form of currency, an indication of social status, a way to show one’s wealth. Food is one of the bases of
everyday life.
For Ötzi, food is culture. He is a hunter‐gatherer; his entire day is focused around food, whether
he is thinking about it, searching for it, or eating it. Originally a shepherd but now seeking safety in the
mountainous forest, he no longer has his goats to worry about. He is not part of a community. For Ötzi,
it is not solely the nutrients from food that keep him going, but also the activity of hunting and
gathering. Food is the defining element of Ötzi’s days.
Marcus Flaccus, the Roman aristocrat, flaunts his position and wealth through food. His
elaborate banquets allow him to show off and enhance his social status. The taste of the food is second
to the extravagance and spectacle of the banquet. For Romans, geography, wealth, and social status are
key aspects that determine a person’s diet. While the typical Roman diet consists of cereal, olive oil, and
wine, Flaccus eats snails and dormice; he is wealthy enough to afford such delicacies and lives in an area
where those luxuries are plentiful. His social and financial status determines his diet, and his diet
reinforces his social status. Food is yet another way for affluent Romans to display their wealth.
In Constantinople, the home of Arethas Doukas, one’s status determines whether or not a meal
will be turned into an event. The lavishness of a banquet symbolizes social stature, as does the type of
food served. Fresh lamb and beef indicate high social status, while poultry and pork are considered
“country fare”. Arethas Doukas, a poor peasant‐turned‐builder, eats very dark bread. But, the wealthy
eat light bread with a fine crumb. Every aspect of food denotes social status. Meals are also an occasion
to join together with friends, family members, and business partners to enjoy one another’s company or
discuss important issues. For Doukas, meals are a time to relax and converse with family and friends.
Meals do not provide just nourishment, but also allow a time for conviviality and pleasure.
Food is a defining aspect of Jewish culture. For Dia Vega, the ability to prepare the ritual foods
of Pesach demonstrates her competence and maturity. Dia knows that to be accepted into her new
husband’s family, she must first appeal to her mother‐in‐law with her cooking skills. She is able to
handle the essential task of preparing the Seder basket, proving herself a capable housewife to the
important female figures of her family. She shows herself ready to take her place among the adult
women of her Jewish community.
While the meaning of food is different for every person of every culture, its significance extends
beyond sustenance. Ötzi, Marcus Flaccus, Arethas Doukas, and Dia Vega are worlds apart, but there is
one aspect of life that they all have in common: food.
Ötzi: A Diary Entry
Aaaaahhhh. I wake up with the sun strong on my face but the ice cool beneath my back.
Fortunately, my pleated grass cape repels most of the cold, and the fire I will soon make will ease the
chills running up and down my spine. I have been living in this mountain range for many days, isolated
and far from the village that I call home. I was forced to flee my community when the enemy came to
attack us. We tried to fight them off, but their numbers were so great that we were quickly
overpowered. The few of us that survived the battle all fled in different directions, hoping that we would
evade the enemy by doing so. I had to leave most of my tools behind when I left, but, luckily, I was able
to keep my copper dagger. I expect that none of the enemy is searching for me or any of my fellow
escapees; it would take too much time and effort. For now, we are safe.
I take out my flint fire lighter to start the fire that I hope will last me the entire day. After
removing tinder fungus and twigs from a pouch on my waist to use as food for the fire, I scavenge for a
stone to rub against my fire lighter. Once I start rubbing the two against each other, tiny orange sparks
spout out from the rock and catch onto the tree fungus beneath. Thankful, I continue to scrape the
lighter against the rock until I have small flames licking each other, at which point I feed the fire more
leaves and twigs. Now equipped with a large fire, I huddle close to it and absorb some of its heat before
beginning to cook my meal. I am a shepherd, but I had to abandon my herd when I left for this mountain
haven. By this point the enemy has probably slaughtered my year’s work. Without my herd, I now hunt
and gather every day. I killed a deer yesterday while I was hunting in the forest; my arrow pierced
straight through his eye. That is what I now roast over the fire. The aroma of sizzling meat fills my
nostrils and I breathe in a deep sigh of contentment. Although I am alone, I at least still have food to
quiet my rumbling stomach.
As the deer roasts, I quickly walk over to the nearby stream and gather some water in a little
bowl I have made for myself. Bringing it back to the fire, I mix in einkorn from my birch container to
make a sort of porridge. Once the meat has cooked, I sit down right next to the fire for my meal: the
most enjoyable part of my day. Afterwards, I pick up my hunting gear and set out to forage for fruits and
vegetables. The hunting gear is for protection, but if another deer were to come along, I would most
certainly take my best shot!
I find wild mushrooms, raspberries, and sloeberries that I pop into my mouth but also put in my
birch container to save for later. The sloeberries are especially important to me, for they have medicinal
properties that I am currently in dire need of. My muscles ache and my back hurts from so many
strenuous days of hunting and hiking. I am used to intermixing hunting with shepherding, which gives
me some rest, but now I must hunt and forage all day long to gather enough food to sustain me. There
are no people around me to supplement my food supply; I have seen no one from my community in
days.
I walk back to my camp, and just as the fire I made earlier comes into view, the crack! of a
breaking branch startles me. I find myself flat on my face, my knee screaming in pain; it was I who, in
tripping, had caused the cracking sound. Trying to push myself from the ground, I grunt in effort as my
arms give in to the weight of my body. After struggling a few times, I finally make it up into a standing
position. I limp over to the fire, fall down next to it and extract my sharp‐tipped tool from the pouch at
my waist. Grimacing, I slice the shape of a cross through the thin layer of skin covering my knee. I grab a
piece of charcoal and rub charcoal dust into the newly made cross until the lines turn a shade of bluish‐
black. I breathe in a grateful breath as the pain subsides; this remedy of cutting into my own skin has
worked yet again.
Painfully getting up to feed more fungus to the fire, I hear a soft swish behind me. But before I
can look around, an arrow pierces through the soft flesh of my left shoulder. I turn and see the enemy
grinning, his bow still in his hand. I have lost the battle, and I know it. The enemy that overtook my
village has prevailed against me as well. Yet even so, I still want to die with honor. Just before I collapse
into a bloody heap on the ground, I pull the arrow out of my back and fling it on the floor. Then, unable
to stop myself, I crumble face‐first into the cold terrain. As I take my last breath, I think to myself, I am
gone. No one will ever see me again.
Now, all is black.
Marcus Flaccus: A Diary Entry
The sun streams through the windows as I stretch out my limbs under the burgundy cover of my
warm, lovely bed. I push the plush blanket off myself and rise for a day of lounging in my villa; as an
aristocrat, if I don’t have the urge to work, there is no need to do so. My wheat farm is thriving, my
hundreds of slaves are working productively, and I have a lavish banquet planned for tonight.
Everything is as it should be. But until the banquet, I am still fasting. Of course I am not fasting due to
lack of money; actually, it is quite the opposite. Wealthy noblemen fast for the intellectual benefits.
Fasting gives us security because, as we eat meager portions of common food, we realize that we will
always have at least something to eat if our wealth is taken away from us. It makes us step into the
shoes of the poor and snag a glimpse of what their lives are like. But, of course, I would never wish to
subsist solely on crusts of bread and water for my entire life! I much prefer scallops and venison.
Even so, I am determined to complete the last morning of my fasting days with a scant bowl of
barley porridge eaten in my dining room. I am not yet married, so I eat alone, which pleases me. My
solitude gives me ample time to ponder the issues that arise in my active mind. I have all day to think!
But before I can settle down to contemplate anything and everything, I must check on my shop, located
on the street right in front of my villa. The shop mostly sells the fruit of my land: wheat. It is also stocked
with pottery and cutlery to make a bit extra profit; what’s wrong with earning a few more coins here
and there?
As I step into the store, the powerful odors of rotten feces and trash almost cause me to gag. I
rarely visit the store, for I cannot stand the awful smell of the street. Staying in my villa, far away from
the outside world, is what I much prefer. I take a quick look through the shop to make sure everything is
in order; the shop is bustling, just as it should be. Who wouldn’t want to buy the finest grain in all of
Rome? After speaking to the shopkeeper, I return to my living quarters where I enter the garden. The
roses are bright and blossomed, beckoning me to smell their sweet perfume, and the young, newly‐
planted trees are full of fruit. There I sit, basking in the glory of the sun, and close my eyes until…
A finger gently taps on my shoulder and a voice calls softly, “Wake up, Sir; you have a banquet
to host!” I rise from my bench and look up at the sun; it is no longer right above my head. So, I decide to
make my way to the baths. Cleanliness is imperative, and there is nothing I need to do in preparation for
the banquet. The cooks will handle it all.
I enter the street and head to the thermae, or public baths, with one of my slaves. My slave and
I arrive at the thermae and enter separately. Upon entering, I first undress and store my clothes in a
certain spot; I have a special place for them that no one else knows about. Then, I go to the first of a
series of bathing rooms: the frigidarium. That room contains cold water, and I wash myself thoroughly
with the cool, refreshing liquid. The other men around me are talking and laughing, and I nod my head
to a few acquaintances. Usually I come to the baths with friends, but today I have come alone. It is even
more soothing being here by myself, and as I progress into the tepidarium (warm room) and then
caldarium (hot room), I feel my muscles beginning to relax and submit to the heat. After being in the
caldarium for so long that I begin to feel woozy, I reenter the tepidarium where my slave joins me to
massage and oil my body. Rid of all of my dry and dirty skin, I am now ready for the banquet.
I quickly dress and then walk back to my villa, arriving just before my guests. As always, my
timing is perfect! I go to the courtyard‐garden where the first course of the banquet is already set up.
My guests begin to arrive, and we converse while admiring the beauty of the garden that summer has
brought. We chat over dormice covered in honey and sprinkled with poppy seeds. Scallops still in their
shells rest on a pile of imported snow to keep them chilled. Everybody questions the eggshells,
wondering why a simple hard‐boiled egg would be served at a feast as lavish as this. But, they are
pleasantly surprised when they find that the “eggshell” is pastry that surrounds a raw oyster “yolk”.
As the appetizers are cleared, our conversation turns to philosophy. Thirty aristocrats discussing
philosophy can be a bit dangerous; the competition for the wittiest retort is fierce. As we reach the
zenith of our discussion, a slave wheels in an enormous roasted boar complete with eyes and teeth. All
the guests cheer, but they do not know what awaits them. As the slave takes a knife and cuts the first
slit through the pig, a lamb is revealed. Everyone gasps, marveling at how masterful the chef is that he
was able to fit a lamb into a pig. Inside the lamb are two ducks, inside each of those a chicken, and then
out from the chickens hop four live, baby bunny rabbits. Jumping amidst the men, the tiny creatures
scamper away into the brush to nibble on tiny leaves of shrubbery. This is nothing less than what my
guests expect of me, for they have been to my banquets before. But, today I will outdo myself. This feast
will be extraordinary.
Next, a server wheels in a miniature lake filled with fish of every color. As the fish fly through the
air, droplets of water splash onto the men closest to the spectacle. Surrounding the lake (assembled on
a wooden cart) is a forest of broccoli and tall, stalky greens. Little fruits look like flowers hidden among
the brush; it is an impressive sight for all. Two of my chefs appear and catch the fish with miniature
fishing nets. They quickly kill and gut the fish, then grill them over the small fire next to the “forest”. Not
only is the presentation impeccable, but the fish are delicious as well!
The last spectacle is a huge silver platter split into twelve different compartments, each
representing a different Roman god. For Juno there is pomegranate; Ceres has a loaf of the finest bread.
For Neptune there are thimble‐sized glasses of salt water, and for Minerva, olives stuffed with sea
urchin to represent her creation of the olive tree. Dates, the fruit of the palm tree, are in Apollo’s
section, while small discs of fresh cheese symbolize Diana, the goddess of the moon. Vulcan, the god of
fire, gets a colorful salad of tomatoes and peppers; Venus’ seductiveness is represented by rose‐scented
pudding. A piece of blood sausage disguised as charcoal is there for Mercury, the god of trickery. Mars’
portion of the platter has a piece of sacrificed bull, and Bacchus, of course, is symbolized by a bunch of
grapes. Jupiter, the god of all gods, has a huge lightning bolt made out of pastry dough. My cooks are
very creative, are they not? All the men are enthralled by the idea of honoring the gods at a banquet,
and by this point, they are already enjoying themselves a little too much due to ever‐full glasses of wine.
Thank you, Bacchus!
As we laugh and converse, the musicians arrive. Beautiful women playing harps and singing
lovely melodies plaster contented smiles onto our faces. As they perform, scrumptious desserts are
presented: tiered cakes layered with fresh fruits, honeyed pastries covered by clouds of nuts and sugar,
and a tremendous berry tart with gold pieces hidden among the fruits. The men have no idea that there
are gold treasures in the tart, and so they are upset when they bite down on hard nubbins in their
dessert. But, once the first man extracts a nubbin and realizes that it is gold, everyone begins asking for
rather large slices of the tart. Here’s a tip that always works: adding gold makes any banquet a success.
A servant comes to us and announces that the wee hours of the morning are approaching. I look
up and see that the sun has set long ago, but I had not noticed the change in light. My servants are
prompt to light lanterns at the precise moment that the sun’s rays begin to dim, so it is always day‐time
to me.
Leaving the courtyard, my guests graciously thank me for the splendor I have shared with them
tonight. I nod my head and say goodbye; it is late, and the wine has slurred my speech and made heavy
my eyelids. I walk back through the villa and into my sleeping quarters, where I collapse on the luxurious
bed waiting for me. Today has been magnificent, a day well worth living. It was an exemplary model of a
day in the life of a Roman aristocrat.
Arethas Doukas: A Diary Entry
Screeech! The grinding of stones by the jeweler next door awakens me every morning. I hear my
littlest son wail “Mama, I’m hungry!” as I rub my eyes and peer into the hazy room. The kitchen is full of
steam, for my wife, Anastasia, is making fennel tea. Good, because I will need something to wake me up
today. As I slap my cheeks for energy, I notice that my other children are still asleep.
“Wake up!” I call to them. “It’s time for the day to start.” Five of us sleep in the same room: my
wife and I along with the three youngest children. The older two sleep in the hybrid room we have for
cooking, dining, and relaxing. A peasant‐turned‐builder like me doesn’t have money for separate rooms
for each family member. We moved to this home last year, when I started working on the Hagia Sophia.
Peasants were being recruited from the countryside to build the mammoth basilica, and I decided to
come to the city. I was tending land with my cousin at that point, but profits were meager and we were
barely surviving. So, I left my farm and moved here, to Constantinople, with my family. Our little
tenement apartment is small, noisy, and crumbling to pieces, but it’s the best we can afford.
While I busy myself putting on my tunic, Anastasia prepares ariston, our first meal of the day.
She’s a good cook, and she knows how to turn the little money we have into something tasty. Although
we subsist on the staples of grain, olive oil, and wine, my wife makes our meals delicious. Anastasia
gathers the children in a circle on the floor, where she sets a big platter of food down onto a beautiful
woven rug. Maza, or freshly‐baked barley bread, sits next to cubes of cheese and bowls of olive oil and
honey. Cabbage and lentil stew is like bubbling lava next to traganos, our barley porridge. We all tear
pieces off the rounds of dark bread to sop up the stew. Our fingers touch as we grab chunks of cheese to
dunk in olive oil. I smack my lips in approval yet my throat is parched with thirst; Anastasia answers my
unspoken command by appearing with a cup of fennel tea. The food is barely enough for us, and while
we have lots of variety in our meals, the portions are meager. We must save up for tonight, when my
brothers are coming over for deipnon, the evening meal. It is necessary to show them a good time.
Although we are poor, we do the best we can to treat our guests well.
I stand up from the floor and head off to work yet another day on the Hagia Sophia. Although
the layering of bricks is monotonous, I enjoy it because I can talk and sing with the other men. They are
peasant‐turned‐builders like me, so we’re all in the same boat. Walking past the bustling streets stocked
with vendors, I catch my first glimpse of the church. Although it is only stacks of bricks right now, it still
takes my breath away every time I see it. The huge, towering walls, so strong and sturdy. The giant
dome that I vividly imagine over the entire structure. I walk to my workplace and greet my fellow
laborers; they are already slathering mortar onto bricks. We work all day, piling bricks on top of bricks,
only pausing to eat the few paximadia, or barley biscuits, that our wives have made us for nourishment.
After a hard day’s work, my weary feet lead me on the journey home. Sweat seeps out of my
every pore, and I barely have enough time to stop at the public baths. My brothers will be coming over
for deipnon shortly, and I must be at home to greet them when they arrive.
The aromas of pork basting in olive oil and sautéed onions cooking with garlic drift through the
door and into my nostrils as I stand in front of our tenement. “I’m home!” I announce to the family upon
entering the kitchen.
“Perfect,” Anastasia says as she wipes flour off her cheek. “Your brothers should be here any
minute. I hope you had a good day at work.”
“As good as always,” I reply cheerfully. Now that I am surrounded by the mouthwatering
perfumes of Anastasia’s cooking, my stomach grumbles in pleasure. I rinse my hands and face in cool
water to ready myself for deipnon; I have just finished drying off when I hear the banter of my brothers
outside the door.
“Welcome!” I say with a grin as they come into the house. My four brothers are all peasants like
me, but they are still tending their land in the rural outskirts of Constantinople. Unlike me, they have not
moved into the city to help build the Hagia Sophia. As the five of us sit in a circle on the floor to begin
our meal, I realize how similar we all look with our clean‐shaven faces, short hair, and long tunics. When
we were children, our aunts and uncles had a hard time telling us apart. But, among ourselves, we could
never imagine confusing one brother for another.
Anastasia soon brings out platters of food: sphoungata, a spongy omelet made in olive oil, is
dripping with garos, my favorite fish sauce. A casserole of pork and greens is sizzling next to freshly
baked maza (barley bread) with olive oil and cheese. Boiled greens with onions and garlic along with oily
olives complete the meal. Talking about our daily lives, our aging parents, and the great Emperor
Justinian, we enjoy our plentiful feast. Perhaps the wealthy would not consider this meal to be a
banquet, but for us, it is extraordinary. I save a part of my salary for occasions such as this; entertaining
is an essential part of our culture, and I know that my brothers will invite me to their homes in the
future.
After finishing deipnon, we lounge around drinking wine mixed with water. Of course Anastasia
cannot relax with us, for she is a woman and so stays in the other room with the children. As the powers
of the wine prevail over our reasoning minds, we begin to mimic our relatives. Acting out our father’s
compulsive sneezing, my brother Eustathios leads all of us to hysterics as we gasp and laugh over his
impeccable impersonation.
When the sun has completely set and the hour is late, my brothers go to sleep on beds of
blankets and pillows that Anastasia has prepared for them. My brothers will stay the night but will have
to get up early tomorrow morning to make the journey home. I peek into the bedroom where Anastasia
and the children are all fast asleep, and I creep into bed beside my wife. Closing my eyes, I drift off into a
peaceful sleep dreaming of the finished Hagia Sophia. In my mind, the Hagia Sophia will be the most
beautiful, gold‐laden, mosaic‐filled church in the entire world.
Dia Vega: A Diary Entry
Darkness envelopes the entire city, yet I have already been up for hours. Tonight begins Pesach,
our celebration of the Exodus from Egypt, and my mother‐in‐law has entrusted me with the task of
preparing the Seder basket. I married Abad just a few months ago, so I am still getting accustomed to
the responsibilities associated with being a wife. Pesach is one of the most important holidays, and the
Seder basket, which holds symbolic foods, is the essential part of the meal. I am honored that Abad’s
mother has delegated this task to me, and I need to make sure that everything is perfect.
Fortunately, I decided to make some of the dishes in advance, such as the haroset. Haroset is my
favorite part of the Seder; it’s a stew of chestnuts, dates, raisins, dried figs, and walnuts with spices and
red wine. I take out the enormous container of it that I have made and scoop a spoonful into a blue
ceramic bowl. I don’t have time for any real meals today; I am too busy cooking and cleaning. Also, since
I have already cleansed my house of all hametz, or grains not permitted during Pesach, I cannot eat any
foods that aren’t allowed during the holiday. I spent all of yesterday purging the house of every wheat,
rye, oat, spelt, and barley product, and I took out the special Pesach dishes that we use to ensure that
nothing is contaminated with hametz.
So, I sit down with my bowl of haroset and let the earthy flavors meld together in my mouth. As
I bite into a date, I think of the biblical lands associated with the fruit. The red wine symbolizes the
plague of blood inflicted upon the Egyptians, while the sweetness of the fruits signifies God’s kindness.
Haroset itself represents the mortar with which Jews built the Egyptian pyramids. This is why I love
Pesach more than any other holiday: everything has a meaning.
After my morning meal, I go outside to my little garden to pick parsley for karpas, which is
parsley dipped in saltwater. The sun beams down on my head as I wiggle the roots of the plant out from
beneath the soil. The fresh herb with its bright green leaves has always symbolized the beginning of
spring to me, and I smile as I bring it inside the house. We will serve it with the saltwater that represents
tears of slavery.
Once I wash and dry the parsley, I prepare little bowls of saltwater for the dipping of the herb.
This tradition originated because in ancient times, Jews dipped herbs in blood to mark their doorposts;
this was to ensure that their firstborn sons wouldn’t be killed by the Angel of Death. The tenth plague
that God afflicted on the Egyptians was that every firstborn son be killed, but as Israelites, we wanted to
evade this plague. I’m extremely glad that sons aren’t killed here, in Cordoba, because I am hoping to
have a little baby soon. I am not pregnant yet, but I cannot wait to be a mother. I can just imagine my
son’s peaceful face as he rests in my arms, his tiny toes and fingers that are almost too miniscule to see.
I hope that motherhood is coming soon. But right now, I must focus all of my energy into getting ready
for the Seder.
It is time to prepare the maror and chazaret, two bitter vegetables that represent the bitterness
of being enslaved by the Egyptians. I have chosen to use bitter lettuce and endive for the two
vegetables; I hope this will please my mother‐in‐law. Cutting them into small, delicate slices, I can feel
my responsibility to this Pesach on my shoulders. I have to make my own mother proud. She must see
that I am really a woman now.
As I go through the list in my head of all the tasks I must complete, I realize that I have forgotten
to pick up the matzo! How could I possibly forget to buy unleavened bread, the single most important
element of the Seder? So, I run out of my house in the direction of the synagogue. The street is bustling
with jolly folk anticipating Pesach. The air around me is filled with excitement, and I can’t help but add
to it my nervous exhilaration. As I enter the synagogue, I see a woman distributing shmurah matzo. I
quickly walk towards her and pick up six large rounds of the special matzo. We eat unleavened bread
during Pesach because, in escaping from Egypt, the Jews did not have time for their bread to rise. They
had to bake it when it was still flat dough; that is what created matzo. We Jews eat matzo during Pesach
to commemorate the Exodus.
While I’m out of the house, I decide to purchase a zeroa, or shank bone, from the Jewish
butcher that follows the laws of kashrut. When I enter the store and ask the butcher for a shank bone,
he smiles at me and pulls one out from beneath the counter. “It’s the last one I have,” he says. “You are
very lucky.”
I walk out of the store beaming; I can’t believe my good fortune. The shank bone is a necessity
for the Seder because it symbolizes the Paschal lambs that were sacrificed before the destruction of the
Temple. Since the destruction, Jews do not sacrifice lambs in celebration of Pesach. Instead, we have the
Seder.
When I return to the house, I find that Abad is already home. “Everything looks perfect,” he says
to me, smiling as I walk through the door. “Except that you have to get dressed! The Seder is soon
approaching.”
“Is it that late already?” I ask him.
“Yes,” Abad replies. “And I know you’re nervous, but everything will be fine. Remember, my
parents live just next door, so we won’t be late.”
I hurry to dress myself in holiday attire and pin my hair with golden combs. It must have taken
longer than I had anticipated to finish up my shopping, for how else could Pesach be approaching so
quickly? Once I am dressed, I gather together all of the symbolic foods and arrange them carefully in the
Pesach basket that my own mother gave me upon my engagement to Abad. I hurriedly grab the beitzah,
or roasted egg, and place it in the basket. The beitzah symbolizes sacrifice and mourning, but also
springtime. I have always been impressed that a simple egg can have so many meanings.
Once all of the elements are in the basket, Abad picks up the shmurah matzo and we walk next
door to his parents’ house.
“Welcome!” Abad’s brother Addis greets us upon opening the door.
“Happy holiday!” we reply in celebration as we enter the house. Many people are already there;
the house is full of aunts, cousins, grandparents, and every other relative imaginable. I’m surprised by
how many people can fit into Abad’s parents’ house! I put my basket in the middle of the table and then
say hello to all of Abad’s, and now my, family. Finally, Abad’s father calls to everyone that it is time for
the Seder to begin. Haggadahs, the books that contain the narrative of the Exodus, are passed around
the table. We begin to tell the tale of the Exodus, interspersed with blessings over wine and the
symbolic foods in the Seder basket. We sing, laugh, and celebrate together. When it is time to taste the
haroset, everybody marvels at how delicious it is. I blush and beam as Abad squeezes my hand; my
haroset is a success!
After going through the majority of the service, it is time for the meal. We start out with
haminados, which are browned eggs with onions and vinegar. Then we move on to my favorite soup:
chicken broth with leeks and carrots. Abad’s sister, Bahia, made it; I must admit—she is a much better
cook than I. Our next course is carp covered by a citrus sauce that is my mother‐in‐law’s secret. She will
not reveal the recipe to anyone, not even Bahia! When the main course is brought out, my jaw drops in
astonishment. In comes four huge legs of lamb, roasted to perfection and sprinkled with dried fruits. The
aroma of roasted meat entices me to the point where I melt into oblivion. Once I take my first bite, it is
as if some power has overcome me. I eat until my stomach is about to burst! We also enjoy fava beans
with chicken, a dish of celeriac and carrots, and eggplant fried to perfection—crunchy on the outside,
creamy on the inside. Dessert consists of a multitude of delicacies that all of the guests have contributed
to: walnut tortes, honeyed pastries, and pistachio biscuits are just a few. Throughout the meal, everyone
converses and jokes together. I feel perfectly at home, as if I have always been a part of this family. I am
so happy, I think to myself while biting into another pistachio biscuit. This is what marriage is supposed
to be like.
After the Pesach meal, we conclude the service by finishing the story written in the Haggadah
and singing songs. While singing Dayenu, we whip each other with scallions to represent how the
Egyptians whipped the enslaved Israelites. In a frenzy of flying scallions, we battle one another until the
scallions are heaped about in shreds on the floor.
It is now late, and the guests are beginning to depart. Abad and I help to clean up the scallions;
once it is done, we go to Abad’s mother to say good night.
“My dear,” she murmurs while embracing me in a hug, “you have done well. We are proud to
have you in our family.”
My heart leaps as Abad and I walk out the door and into our own house. I cannot imagine a
Pesach Seder as pleasurable as this one. Tonight, I made a memory.
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