I often wanted to ask, hoping for an invitation, but I never worked up the courage. I never knew which neighbor was the cook, although I suspected that it was one of the Canadians. As we would leave our apartment to buy last-minute odds and ends for our frequent guests, the aroma would penetrate the thick walls of the building, imbuing them with the scent of deliciousness, and the age-old power and love of the Sabbath. Somewhere amongst the many neighbors in our apartment building on Rehov Chanah Senesh there was another talented soup maker, like Mom, someone else whose soup was a perfect perfume as it permeated the hallways. When we lived in Herzliya, as we did intermittently for 22 years, there was that fragrance as well, also on Fridays. She never made soup on Saturday, the Shabbat. Somehow she knew exactly how to make perfect soup each and every time, and every time meant at least six days a week. She had a repertoire, an endless world-class collection of soups, always served hot, except for an occasional summer schav, always disseminating their fragrance throughout the house. Her soup was nothing short of love in a bowl. And, to please my father, rock-hard kneidlach usually were swimming together with tender lima beans. Necks and pupiks were added for depth and complexity of flavor, alongside the always memorable baby eggs, of which there were never enough. The golden color, born of her secret ingredient, a sweet potato, the fat globules floating atop the sumptuous luxurious liquid, laden with fresh vegetables, chicken legs, immaculately plucked, with their feet scrubbed, simmered to perfection, transforming simple tap water into a magical potion. Get New Jersey Jewish News's Newsletter by email and never miss our top storiesįor Friday nights, as is typical among our people, Mom made chicken soup, always a rich silky broth, bringing the household into the spirit of Shabbat long before the candles were lit. Her theory was that hot soup would do whatever the weather demanded, warm you in winter and cool you in summer, and be absolutely perfect throughout the rest of the year. Peak time was January, February, and March, but Mom never subscribed to the concept, so unfortunately ingrained into Israeli restaurant menus, that you can’t enjoy soup in July or August. Perhaps we just appreciated the hot perfection in a bowl more on those miserable days. Just about any day was a perfect soup day for Mom. Thus, when we kids would walk into the house chilled to the bone, our teeth chattering from the bitter cold, mittens frozen on our fingers and boots filled with snow from our long hikes to and from school, she always had the perfect solution - a brimming bowl of her delicious hot soup.īut lest you think the weather had to be Arctic cold, with fiercely whistling winds, for her to make soup, let me promptly dispel you of that notion.
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