Mara Jevera Fulmer's Blog

& Other Jewish Soul Food Memories

I am made of the sweet and sour stuffed cabbage of my grandmother Sadye’s special recipe, the kind that you would want to lap up the sauce like soup, layers of cabbage unfolding and refolding around the tender meat inside seasoned so from the cabbage brine, the tomatoes, and the tucked in golden raisins that plumped from long slow cook. It was a healing recipe, carried from the old country, a Jewish twist on the Polish golumpkes… the same, but not the same at all.

I am made from the memories of this and other sweet fruits of her kosher kitchen labors that she would create in the little galley kitchen of her 8th floor apartment. Never mind how much notice we had given her before a visit. There always seemed to be a juicy brisket, some stuffed cabbage, and a plate of Jewish-style chopped liver – recipes that had been carried and fussed over for and among generations standing side-by-side in the making of them. 

I am made from the sweet crunchy taste of the Mandelbrot, the biscotti of the Jews, that she spent time baking first as a loaf, then sliced and baked again, aromatic with vanilla or lemon, and drizzled with love. A cup of hot tea was its best accompaniment. 

I am nourished by the amusing memories of my then fiancé (and later husband of 30 years) Keith who went with me on a visit to my grandmother’s apartment. It wasn’t long before I found Sadye’s petite frame following Keith around the dining room table, in her hand a pretty plate with a mound of chopped liver topped with chopped egg, as is the tradition. “What’s the matter?” She asked him in her most stereotypical Connecticut Jewish twang. “You don’t like chopped liver?” Keith shakes his head vigorously, a good Midwestern boy raised in a Methodist/Baptist household.

Decades later, I found myself re-immersed in Sadye’s embrace in my own kitchen after scouring through my rediscovered childhood recipe cards – and of course the internet – to find the true Jewish grandmother-versions of the recipes my tastebuds could still fully recall. My father sat at my dining room table, anxiously awaiting the treat that I hoped would put into focus the fading memories of his childhood.

As I finished the last batch of Mandelbrot, one with almonds, orange and vanilla, another with chocolate chips, pecans, and dried cherries, neither was a “true” version of the past, but instead a retelling with some modern new flourishes. 

A small bite, at first, my father’s eyes opened wide and a huge grin stretched across his face. “YES!” He said. “Sadye would be proud!” he pronounced proudly.  

At that, I knew I had done my duty as her only granddaughter to carry forth at least this one small tradition, one baked with love and the many blessings of my grandmother.