34 | JANUARY 13 • 2022 

SPIRIT

O

n the 15th of Shevat, 
when the calendar 
says early winter, and 
Eastern Europe lies covered in 
snow, in Israel the first signs of 
spring appear as the almond 
tree begins to flower. So the 
Mishnah declares 
the 15th of the 
month of Shevat 
as the new year 
for trees, the 
start of the fiscal 
year for arborists 
(Rosh Hashanah
1:1). 
You have to 
pay your agricultural taxes on 
each year’s harvest separately. 
The year starts on a specific day 
well after the olive harvest of 
the old year and well before any 
fruits are ever ready — so you 
have no trouble telling wheth-
er your fruit comes from this 
year’s crop or last year’s. 
Our forebears, Sephardic and 
Mizrahi Jews in the warm lands 
of the south, could celebrate Tu 
b’Shevat and their connection to 

the land of Israel by developing 
an elaborate meal around the 
fruits of Israel, “a land … of 
vine and fig and pomegranate, 
a land of oil olive and (date) 
honey” (Deut. 8:8). They ate 
courses of olives, pomegranates, 
and dates, in between drinking 
white wine and red wine. 
Our forebears, Ashkenazic 
Jews in the colder northern 
lands of Europe, made a strong 
effort to keep their connec-
tion to the land of Israel, too. 
Ashkenazi Jews, like Sephardi 
and Mizrahi Jews, recite a bless-
ing in gratitude for the land in 
every grace after meals. 
Our synagogues, ideally, face 
toward the land of Israel. But 
in the colder parts of Europe, 
it was difficult, years ago, to 
obtain foods from the Holy 
Land. 
If you wanted to celebrate Tu 
b’Shevat, you had to make do 
with whatever fruits you could 
get. That meant eating dried 
carob, the fruit of a kind of 
locust bean tree (Ceratonia siliq-

ua) — in Yiddish, bokser.
Which explains why, when 
I went to Hebrew school, the 
teacher gave us each a stubby 
piece of dried carob. I also got 
a few other pieces because the 
other children did not particu-
larly want any. It takes an effort 
to enjoy the taste of dried carob 
— chew on the woody pod long 
enough, and you can get some 
flavor — but you can enjoy the 
idea that the fruit came from 
Israel. Think of what that meant 
to our ancestors in Europe. 
Fresh carob makes a better 
snack: chewy, sweet, umami, 
with a unique complex flavor. 
Last time I visited Israel, my 
family had a picnic in a grove 
of carob trees, and I enjoyed 
several of the pods for dessert. 
I thought they were delicious. 
On the other hand, no one else 
wanted any. 
Like it or not, the fruit is a 
pretty complete food. It has 
plenty of sugars and other 
carbohydrates, proteins, min-
erals, fiber and antioxidants. 

Carob has several culinary uses, 
including as a chocolate substi-
tute, as if anything could replace 
chocolate. The locust bean gum 
that thickens commercial food 
products comes from the seeds 
of the carob. 
Etymologists say bokser 
comes from a word meaning 
“ram’s horn tree,
” perhaps 
inspired by the appearance 
of the twisty dark pods. The 
English, carob, derives from the 
Hebrew haruv. From the same 
three-letter root, het-resh-bet, 
come words for “destruction,
” 
for “sword” and for “dryness.
” 
What’s the connection? Maybe 
because the tree survives in dry 
parts of the world, or the fruit 
dries completely; or the pod 
looks like a scimitar; or, in a 
famine or drought, you can at 
least eat carob. 

THE CAROB IN 
LITERATURE
The carob appears in rabbinic 
literature. When Rabbi Shimon 
ben Yohai offended the Roman 

ESSAY

Louis 
Finkelman
Contributing 
Writer

A Carob for 
Tu b’Shevat

