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That may be an extreme case, but
how about the rabbinical student who
took his fiancee to a kosher restaurant,
asked her to order and, after she did,
told the waiter he was not eating. "I
wouldn't eat here," he told his confus-
ed wife-to-be, "because I don't trust
their supervision. I just wanted to see if
you'd eat here."
The bottom line, though few choose
to dwell on it, is that one of the ra-
tionales for keeping kosher is that it
separates Jews from non-Jews and non-
observant Jews. When you can't eat
with someone, how close can you get?
Still, there are those who feel you
can adhere to the law without offen-
ding those who do not. Blu Greenberg,
in her book, elaborates on ways for
observant Jews to take precautions and
still dine with non-kosher friends or
associates, either in their homes or at
restaurants. The procedures call for
ordering certain dairy foods prepared to
specifications and served on paper
plates with plastic cutlery. While noting
that some observant Jews would still
object, Greenberg reasons that "the
purpose of kashrut is to make eating a
special experience and to serve as a
reminder of a Jew's ethical conscience
as well as of the other unique teachings
of Judaism. To me, distinctiveness but
not separation is the Jew's calling. This
feeling is possible in the presence of
nonobservant Jews and of non-Jews.
The values of friendship, human
solidarity, and socializing are highly
esteemed Jewish values; making a living
and exchanging professional service
(sometimes performed over a meal) also
are respected in Jewish culture.

"One of the great qualities of the
Jewish tradition," she continues, "is its
ability to balance contradictions —
idealism and realism, Jewish par-
ticularism and unusual concern for
humanity. Similarly, in the act of
eating, one can strike that balance bet-
ween fidelity to one's own principles
and shared friendship and respectful
contact with others."
People who keep kosher are too often
put on the defensive by those who see
kashrut as an ancient, archaic way of
life that simply does not mesh with
modernity. Long, eloquent answers on
the spiritual benefits of adhering to
the rituals may not be convincing. But
the truth is that most people who keep
kosher do so simply because it is a
mitzvah of the Torah. They believe
that by monitoring what they eat and
do not eat they are constantly remind-
ing themselves of God's gifts as they
seek to follow His ways.

Savoring A
Depression Kitchen

BEATRICE KANIGEL

Special to the Jewish News

T

he everyday meals my mother
produced were masterpieces.
She made everything from
scratch, took no end of trou-
ble and believed firmly in the best in-
gredients money could buy. She'd
dicker furiously over the price of a
winter coat, but there was no stinting
in what - went into her cooking.
"You start with the best:' she'd say.
Yet "waste" was a naughty word we all
learned early, and everything was inven-
tively, and deliciously, used up. Was the
milk slightly off? A cup of flour, a pair
of eggs, a dollop of sour cream, and
before you knew it, a luscious batch of
sour milk pancakes for breakfast, top-
ped with honey.
From the time I was ten, it was my
job almo;t every afternoon to go to the
grocery. My mother usually had a list
prepared. In an excess of juvenile pride,
I refused to take it with me. I'd use all
the tricks I could think of to fix the
items in my memory. Then I'd run out,
with my mother's warning echoing: "If
you forget something, you'll go back!"
In those Depression days, the

neighborhood grocer kept a watchful
eye on customers. If you didn't show up
for a few days, you might be taking
your trade elsewhere. He made you
aware that he knew just how recently
you'd been in: "The herrings I gave you
on Monday — they were good?" Or, "I
haven't seen your mama for a few days.
Is your little sister over her cold?"
This ritual out of the way, I would
begin to tick off the items from
memory, keeping in mind all the
descriptions, qualifiers and footnotes
that my mother was so fond of.
"Three half-sour pickles, still greenish
and not soggy. The best white eggs,
and see that they're candled. A pound
of pot cheese, and if it's not moist-
looking, get the farmer cheese. Broad
noodles, but if he's out, I'll manage
with the medium. Half a pound of
cream cheese, and ask him to open a
new box."
This last was very crafty because it
held out the possibility that Mr. E.
would offer me the lovely, highly prized
wooden box that bulk cream cheese was
packed in. There was no end to its
uses: a bed for a little doll, a closet for
doll clothes, a container for treasures.
By the time I got back home, supper
preparations would be well on the way.

My mother would stop to slice the
fresh loaf of rye bread, spread it with
sweet butter and jam for our afternoon
snack, and we'd swap news of the day.
She was ready then to keep an eye on
our homework. Everything happened
right there in the kitchen. Cutting up
stringbeans, she'd throw spelling words
at us. When the rice pudding, raisin-
filled and aromatic with vanilla, was
put into the oven to bake, she'd sit
down for a few minutes to correct a
composition or check arithmetic
answers. A sloppy paper she'd simply
tear up in disgust. We had no choice
but to do it over. If we had a test the
next day, we'd ask her to "hear" us.
She would tolerate one wrong answer,
but not a second. "Come back when
you know it. I'm not here to listen to
mistakes:'
By now, the fried fish for supper had
been set to crisp on brown paper bags.
In passing, we'd grab a piece for
sustenance, then go back for another
study session. On the first day of
school, the ancients put a drop of
honey on a child's tongue to associate
forever sweetness with learning. In my
mother's kitchen, this happened
naturally most of the time.

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