Honorable Mention - Nonfiction

by Hannah Rubin, New Hampshire

It’s almost dinnertime, and I’m flipping through the pages of my newest cookbook, Amazing Malaysian. My mouth waters at the pictures of Rendang, Roti Jala, and Chicken Satay. My stomach gives a tiny growl of agreement. Then, my gaze turns to the ingredients.

½ teaspoon ground turmeric? Yes. 
2 cups coconut milk? Yes.
¼ cup dried shrimp? That would be an emphatic “no!” 

Judaism has given me many things, but encouragement to sample diverse foods is not one of them. In case someone like myself comes along doubting the rules of kashrut, an entire section of Leviticus deals with this critical matter:

“You may eat any animal that has a split hoof completely divided and that chews the cud. There are some that only chew the cud or only have a split hoof, but you must not eat them. The camel, though it chews the cud, does not have a split hoof; it is ceremonially unclean for you”

Thanks God. How could you know I’d been longing to try roast camel?

“Of all the creatures living in the water of the seas and the streams, you may eat any that have fins and scales. But all creatures in the seas or streams that do not have fins and scales--whether among all the swarming things or among all the other living creatures in the water – you are to detest.
Goodbye prawn korma, jjamppong, and all the “swarming things.”

I never liked you anyways. In fact, I detest you. 
And since you are to detest them, you must not eat their meat and you must detest their carcasses.

And in case any Jew on earth is still confused:

Anything living in the water that does not have fins and scales is to be detestable to you.

I groan, set the cookbook to the side, and open my notebook. ASIAN FOOD STORE LIST smiles back at me, penciled in my best handwriting. Holy basil. Lemongrass. Oyster sauce. My mother denies me every time, but I refuse to stop asking.

“You know, oyster sauce is a key ingredient in pad see ew,” I tell my mom as she sits at the counter, compiling the weekly grocery list. “You love pad see ew. You get it every single time we order Thai food. So why can’t I use it to cook?”

“We keep kosher in this house,” she responds.

“But–” 

“Could you look in the pantry and let me know if we need more tomato sauce?”

I groan, then oblige. My voice may go unheard regarding seafood, but at least I have the pantry. Over the past year, my ingredients collection has burgeoned to encompass two whole shelves. What began as coriander seeds and cardamom pods now includes spices and starches galore: mung bean noodles, kashmiri chili powder, and (infamous among my chili-sensitive family) Ethiopian berbere. My younger sister, adamant upon maintaining a clean pantry, sighs with annoyance each time I bring home a new treasure. The mere sight of these seasonings makes me excited; I smile thinking of what I could do with chana dhal and ghee. In each ingredient, there is potential. 
Unfortunately, within my kosher household, many of these ingredients are banned. Even combinations of ingredients are banned. In the 21st century, when more than 29 million cows are slaughtered for food each year in America, Leviticus gives all Jews a friendly reminder: “you must not cook a calf in its mother’s milk,” leading my parents to say no to home-cooked bolognese lasagna and even tandoori chicken. In this day and age, who knows if the cows are even related? For goodness sake, a chicken and a cow can’t possibly be related! If the beef is second cousins twice removed with the giver of milk, will God be angry with me?

I refuse to confine the recipes I cook (and consume!) to your “typical” American family  meal roundup. Casseroles? Beef chili? Turkey burgers? These meals remind me of childhood family dinners, but they do not ignite the same passion as Dhal Punj Rattani or Thai green curry. I promised myself when I began cooking not to make a single “American” dish. I vowed to make meals from all over the world that were as authentic as possible. Only one thing was missing: the ingredients!

It was two days before my birthday when I finally got the chance to visit my favorite grocery store. My mother steered the car around the corner of Old Concord Road. “You have reached your destination,” announced the GPS. I squinted out the window, struggling to make out my surroundings. And then, I saw it! The lights of the H Mart sign shone brightly in the dimly lit, nearly-vacant parking lot. Below were several Korean words that, despite several months of watching k-drama with my younger sister, I could not understand. But the sight of them excited me. The words seemed to invite me into a vibrant place, so clearly different from our local Market Basket or Trader Joe’s.

Inside, the first thing I noticed was the produce. It was so colorful! I had never seen ginger so large and plentiful, and the dainty contour of the enoki mushrooms looked too beautiful to consume. I could have spent an hour there, running my fingers over the texture of daikon and asian pear, but my mom reminded me the store closed in 20 minutes. And so we moved on.

My eyes struggled to take in everything. I had never before seen so much kimchi! I’d definitely never seen pig entrails for sale. My mother and I were most certainly the only Jewish people in the store, and I loved it! There was a wall full of thinly sliced meat for hot pot, and aisles upon aisles of sauce. Before I knew it, the loudspeaker announced closing time, and after searching fruitlessly for thick rice noodles (the best kind), I jogged to join my mom at the checkout.

As we pushed the shopping cart towards the car, I took a deep mouthful of the nighttime air, gazing up at the sky. My Hebrew school teachers always said God is in everything– the sparkle in the eyes of our loved ones, the light that shines through rustling summer leaves, the music we hear– and I believed, no, I knew, the same is true for food. God is in every mouthful of pad kee mao, every kaffir lime leaf, and yes, every squid and shrimp and clam. 

A month later, I flip through my Malaysian cookbook and smile. Someday, I’ll travel. I tell myself. I will visit countries and cultures far away from New Hampshire. I will embrace every dish set before me. Regardless of what the Torah and my parents tell me, I consider my responsibility as a Jew to get to know God as well as possible. If God is in everything, then my responsibility is to live, to experience all I can experience, to see, hear, smell, touch... and taste.