My Passover Story
In my family, Passover was celebrated at my grandparents’ house, known to us as Harry and Nana, in Chestnut Hill. My grandfather, Harry, though very much the grandfather, hated the idea of being called any name other than his own.
Harry was not a cherubic grandfather. Nor a stern patriarch. He was a presence. Both intimate and on-high. Given to wet kisses, knuckle-y noogy-punches in your bicep, always demanding high standards and great generosity. There is so much to say about him, but I won’t do it justice here.
On Passover, our five-person family and my aunt’s family of six all assembled around the table for the first Seder. On the second night our second cousins joined the fray.
My Nana Bess only brought out the good stuff for Passover: her special porcelain Passover dishes––enough for six courses––and cut crystal glasses even for the kids, sterling silver, damask tablecloths so white and smooth that it was frightening to even see the red wine and grape juice in their carafes resting on top.
The center of the table was occupied by the Seder Plate, with its shank bone, roasted egg, parsley, horseradish, saltwater and parsley. Scattered artfully around the table were colorful plastic Easter eggs filled with jellybeans. And the occasional chocolate bunny wrapped in foil. In the back hall were our Easter baskets. Yup. We were a totally American Jewish family, ecumenical before it was trendy. But truthfully, we just liked holidays. In those days, we also celebrated Christmas together. My grandmother’s family, German Jews to their roots, brought both the Christian and Jewish holiday traditions with them to America. At least until my little cousin Mikey, now a big fancy rabbi, got religion. Even before he started rabbinical school Mikey put the kybosh on Christmas (for his family at least, if not mine).
We loved Passover. We at the Kids’ Table had a ball. My older brother was somehow given a berth at the Big Table, and honestly, we were just as glad for him removed from our hilarity. He could disrupt the Seder just fine from his perch next to Harry. My grandfather’s Haggadah came to him straight from Maxwell House coffee. I’ve never understood how Maxwell House got the in-road on Haggadah’s, but in the 60’s they prevailed.
Harry read every word in the entire book, perhaps setting a land-speed record for Hebrew text. There were a few fun points in the service where even the most Reform and Hebrew-illiterate of us could participate: stealing the Afikomen, reciting the Four Questions and dipping our fingers in Welch’s Grape Juice for the plagues, and of course the Hillel sandwich of matzo, horseradish and charoset piled on thick.
(Note to Rabbi Mikey: Why is it the Hillel sandwich? Is that an honorific like the Frank Sinatra at the Stage Deli?)
Each one of these moments were highlights not only of the Seder but of our year. Passover filled us with joy. Yes, the Jews had been slaves in Egypt, but here we were in Chestnut Hill with Easter Baskets! Take that Pharaoh! Dayenu! Let my people go!
My grandfather sat at the head of the table, all five feet of him, reclining when he remembered, his left arm guarding a chair layered with pillows. Early in the Seder and with great ceremony, he tucked the Afikomen, a blessed piece of matzo, between the pillows. A Seder can only conclude with the sharing of the Afikomen. In some families, the adults hide it and the children search. In our family, the tradition was for the kids to steal the Afikomen, hide it and bargain it back for money, crisp bills handed out reluctantly by Harry at the end of the meal. Given his stack of bills, he clearly came to the Seder prepared to do business with us. As Harry zip-read the Haggadah several of us would try to stealthily sneak under the table or around his back, slip a hand between the pillows and extract the prize. Several times we would fail, his lizard-like peripheral vision catching the movement as he slammed his hand down on the pillow. But eventually, one of us did succeed. We knew it was part of the game, and we tried to have the youngest grandchild be the Afikomen thief. Useful early training for a life of white-collar crime.
The next Seder highpoint was the Four Questions. We all were prepped for that. In English and in Hebrew. Again, we tried to have the youngest sentient being recite at least the first question, but discipline always eroded in this crowd quickly, and I have dim recall of anyone finishing the Four Questions without others chiming in. I recall that one year when it was my turn, for a reason I can no longer access, I sang the spoof version of the Battle Hymn of the Republic instead of the Four Questions. You know, the one that goes “teacher hit me with a ruler.” I don’t know what was going on in my head, but I remember that people threw the white damask napkins at me in protest.
We loved the Plagues. The Plagues were the best thing. One finger in the wine glass, one dip on the plate for each one. With a rousing chorus of “Let My People Go” after each dip the whole wonderful ritual followed by a rousing rendition of Dayenu. Or maybe it was Chad Gad Ya. Or both. Later on, we evolved to having one of the older males in the family “be” the Pharaoh, replying with a deep bass “NO!” after every Let My People Go. But I think that began after Mikey started Rabbinical school and took control of the Seder.
We made the Hillel sandwich, drenching the cardboard-texture matzo with sweet apple-y charoset and a whisper of hot horseradish. At this point, we knew that the meal was on the horizon. We could hear the chink of porcelain soup bowls in the kitchen and feel that deep anticipation that is chicken soup and round fluffy matzo balls. The soup was a clear as chardonnay, served with a slice of carrot and a tiny sprig of fresh dill. For five minutes all chatter ceased, perhaps for the only time in the year. As far as I was concerned, we could go home now. But there was more to come. Gefilte fish, roast chicken or roast beef, asparagus and other non-memorable dishes. In later years, poached salmon came on board as a first or second Passover staple as more and more of the team became Kosher or vegetarian or both.
My grandmother had a special serving piece for everything. A pronged asparagus server, a special pierced spoon to serve the gefilte fish. After her death, we discovered that she also had oyster forks for 24 (which sort of makes you wonder).
From my perspective, the high point of the meal—after the matzo ball soup—was my mother’s Kiss Torte. Two towering, sugary shells of crumpled meringue, filled with whipped cream and fresh strawberries, un-sprung from their springform molds. Crusty and creamy, tart and sweet. Everything a dessert could aspire towards unless it was chocolate.
My mother was not a cook. Nor was she a baker. In fact, the only recipe I have of hers is her Kiss Torte recipe (see below).
The day of the Kiss Torte-making was a stressful one. We had a tiny urban kitchen. And watching my mother separate two dozen eggs was a terrifying sight. Yolks here. Whites there. Except for the bits of yolk that got in the whites requiring the whole process to begin again, and someone hauling off to the store for another dozen eggs. My mother was always frantic in her Kiss Torte mode. Using larger and larger bowls as her small two-whisk electric eggbeater did yeoman service. Recall that this was a time before Kitchen Aids were standard household appliances. (Though I doubt that would have helped my mom.) She beat the whites and then whipped the cream, folding in the cups of sugar until it formed stiff peaks, (a subjective term if ever I heard one). And then the frantic search for “oh-did-I-already-put-in” vanilla? Followed by scattershot of Cream of Tartar. I still have her little glass vial of cream of tartar. I still do not know what it is, but I know what it does.
Finally, it is time for the Kiss Torte to go in the oven. If we were lucky, it browned and crisped and turned a delectable toasty color on the outside. If we weren’t, it was a soggy sweet mess. Much later I learned that meringue is often a difficult mistress, requiring dry weather and an even oven temperature. I guess sometimes we had neither. But even so, every Passover my Mama’s Kiss Torte was a roaring success in the way that tradition triumphs over technique. The lingering memory of the perfectly executed Kiss Torte lived on from year to year. Even during the off-years there was hope. Next year in Jerusalem. Next year a perfect Kiss Torte.
We have kept on the Kiss Torte tradition for Passover, complete with the frantic search for stiff peaks and vanilla. I never learned why we called it a Kiss Torte, only assuming that it was a cute name made up by my mother. I also never knew that this was a tradition or even a dish made outside my own family. Until a few years ago when I was in Tel Aviv for a family wedding.
A friend was taking us on a walking tour of culinary Tel Aviv. One of our last stops was an Iraqi bakery. My friend Gil said, this is the best, the absolutely best bakery in all of Tel Aviv. He explained that the family had emigrated to Israel recently and boasted generations of Iraqi Jewish bakers. I walked in the bakery with Gil, who was both a friend of the owner and a huge celebrity in his world. I liked the owner. Our common language was French. I tasted broadly. Cookies, biscotti, pastries. And then the owner said to me, “Save room for my piece de resistance. My baiser.” The French word for kiss. And in a flash, there in my mouth, was my mother’s Kiss Torte. Perfectly crisp and chewy, golden, sweet and airy. Passover all over again in one bite. My mother and all her wonderful energy in that one bite. My grandfather’s seder table in that one bite. Jews from all over the world, traveling with their recipes and their traditions in that one bite, and I began to weep at the incredible power of food to bring us together and transport us to wherever we need to be.
This story appeared as an Online Exclusive in the spring of 2020.
KISS TORTE
Serves 8
7 large room temperature eggs, separated, yolks reserved for another use
pinch of salt
pinch of cream of tartar
2 cups sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon white vinegar
4 cups whipped cream
4 cups mixed berries or sliced strawberries
Preheat oven to 250°F.
Butter a 9-inch springform pan. Place the egg whites, salt, cream of tartar in a standing mixer fitted with a whisk. Whip to stiff peaks (it’s a meringue after all), sprinkling 2 additional tablespoons of sugar as you go, over the top of the meringue.
While the mixer is running, add the vinegar and the vanilla, ¼ teaspoon at a time.
Pour the meringue into the prepared spring form pan and transfer to the oven. Bake 1 hour or until it has a lightly toasted color, turn the oven off and let meringue cool in closed oven.
When it is cool, using a thin knife or spatula to loosen the edges of the meringue from the pan, BEFORE releasing the spring form. The center will fall in. Do NOT become alarmed. You didn’t screw it up.
Fill the center with four cups of whipped cream and four cups of fresh berries and serve.
