Becoming an American Jew

Today is Yom Kippur, the day of Jewish Atonement, where all Jews become somber and introspective, asking for forgiveness for any wrongs they may have done throughout the year, spilling the beans to God, for lack of a better word. All this has to be done without any distractions, which means, no food.

Such a condition does not sit well with a foodie like me, as you can well imagine, and so, I breathe a sigh of relief to be a member of a very progressive, informal synagogue, the only one in my nieghborhood, I believe, where my son is warmly accepted wearing jeans and crocks to the service and the rabbi conveniently slips us an out to the food clause by ending his sermon with a “for all of you who are fasting, may it be an easy fast.” He knows enough to assume there is one or two or three of us who will be more distracted without food than with it.

Religion did not play a big role in my upbringing. I’d venture to say it was quite non-existent. Amongst the rows and rows of churches and saints we were the token, odd Jewish family in an unquestioning Catholic South American country that seemed to have more churches and saints than homes. And we seemed just fine like that.

My father would joke about his father (a man of iconic stature I’d grown up hearing stories about) who would most likely be turning in his grave at the sight of his son frying up Sunday’s bacon. And yet, he’d smile, fry on and offer up another story about Isaac Abbady’s critical role with the British government in Palestine, only to end the story with a plateful of the tastiest bacon (the secret, he claimed, was a low flame and lots of patience). If my grandfather was turning, I wouldn’t hear him over the crunch.

Even still, my stamp of Jewish identity seemed an inherent right to me. Born to an Israeli father, my life was woven with colorful stories of abba (Hebrew for “father”) and his youthful adventures as a Boy Scout romping through the still-forming confusion of Palestine and then later, Israel. My father was a real sabra (a term I wore proudly as if my own) used to describe native-born Israelis. He’d come alive during his tales growing up in Israel, his hazel eyes lighting up with sparks of excitement that drew me into his world and kept me there.

Every year my family and I would make our annual summer trip to Israel, where, aside from intrusive cheek pinching from overbearing musty relatives, our father would point out the landmarks of his many stories and even attempt to relive some with my sisters and I: the skidding snake trail of Masada, the small kiosk on a crowded Jerusalem street which served as a meeting point for skipping school, the overcrowded beaches in Tel-Aviv. Each had helped make my father who he was and in turn, each helped draw him closer to me.

This was how my Jewish identity was formed and it attached itself easily to the kaleidoscope of my unconventional upbringing as a child raised in a Latin country by an Israeli man and a American (converted) woman, a life spent brushing shoulders with diplomat kids and army brats that came from any corner of the world you chose. It all seemed quite normal to me.

When I started my own family in South Florida I realized I had missed a huge American Jewish cultural gap. Just as I couldn’t bond with college buddies reciting episodes of The Brady Bunch (I only caught snippets of it on our winter visits to the U.S.), I couldn’t navigate through the American Jew’s pronunciations of Sabbath, Yom Kippur, or Rosh Ha Shanna.

There have been many other adjustments coming from a secular Israeli-international background to a South Florida Jewish one filled with moments where I feel I don’t quite fit in. But then again, it is a feeling I have carried with me one way or another my entire life and its strangeness is strangely familiar to me.

My adaptation to the food customs has been a huge success as I eagerly embrace the American Jewish obsession with brisket, kugel, and tzimmes: delicious prerequisites for being a good American Jew. The pronunciations and prayers may take some time to figure out, but again, I am grateful for my unassuming, progressive rabbi as well as the unbridled excitement and enthusiasm of my kids. This is their reality, this is their Judaism, and I am quietly, gratefully and hungrily along for the ride.

GINGER KUGEL
A great way to break the fast or not break the fast, whatever your liking.
Noodle Kugel:
water
1 pound medium egg noodles
1/2 cup butter (1 stick) at room temperature
1 (8-ounce) package cream cheese
8 ounces plain Greek yogurt (or sour cream)
6 eggs, slightly beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup sugar
1 (8-ounce) can crushed pineapple
1 tablespoon fresh-grated ginger

Crumb Topping:
3/4 cup crushed cornflakes
1/4 cup sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon
4 tablespoons butter

To make kugel:
In a boiling pot of water, cook noodles about 10 minutes until slightly overcooked.
Meanwhile, combine the butter, yogurt, sour cream, eggs, vanilla and sugar in a food processor (or mix with electric mixer). Combine.
In a small bowl, combine pineapple with ginger and mix well.
Drain noodles and place in a bowl.
Add noodle mixture and pineapple/ginger mixture and mix well.
Transfer to a greased 13 x 9 x 2 inch glass baking dish and refrigerate overnight (if you are short on time, you can freeze for 30 minutes).

To make topping:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix together crushed cornflakes, sugar and cinnamon and spread evenly on top of kugel. Dot top with bits of butter and bake 1 hour or until golden brown.

Makes 8-10 servings.