(All illustrations by Hannah Presdee.)

All of my grandparents are dead. Sorry for the uncomfortably brash beginning, but I thought it best to lay all my cards out on the table before we begin. My dad’s parents died before I was born; my maternal granddad died when I was nine, and my grandmother went out with an almighty bang in my late teens after years of a heartbreaking disintegration courtesy of dementia. It’s fine though, coz once you have a parent that also dies before you turn 15, a dead grandparent isn’t so much of a big deal. HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

Despite many of my relatives succumbing to the ‘domino effect’ of having anything to do with my family (my brother calls it, ‘THE CURSE’), my childhood experiences were left un-compromised, and still remain as blissful and vivid as they were when everyone was alive and well. See, that’s one thing that’s guaranteed if you descend from a culture of eastern european jews – your relatives will never fail to instil in you the sanctity of your heritage – even when they’re dead.

As a child, the stench of smoked salmon and gefilte fish balls that escaped from my packed lunch were my daily trauma.
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE MUM – WHY CAN’T YOU JUST GIVE ME NORMAL HAM SANDWICHES LIKE EVERYONE ELSE!?,” I would shout into my Sainsbury’s bag (another source of amusement for the kids & their glitter boxes bought at the Disney shop).  Fast forward 15 years and it’s not uncommon to find me browsing Instagram for ‘salt beef’ hashtags. It’s taken me up until the age 25 to fully appreciate the privilege of being brought up with a unique, rich culture – especially when that culture tastes pretty darn good.

My mum’s parents on their wedding day, 1948

With age came understanding of the cultural significance of certain childhood rituals and, for me, it made my commitment to recovering from my eating disorder all the more important. After all, it was less than a decade ago that my great grandparents, uncles, aunts and long-lost cousins relied on the generosity of non-jewish neighbours to donate them a single loaf of bread. And there I was, terrified at the mention of the word carbohydrate.
Funnily enough, when I began on the recovery road, so-called “jew foods” seemed to be the safest and easiest foods to recouple with. It would seem that when battling the anorexic bastard, my most lethal weapons were potato latkes and hefty ladels of grandma’s chicken soup.

Smoked salmon beigels

Beigels vs bagels was always a heated debate in my household. Nana would offer a selection of warm, beigels, freshly baked that morning by the “pleasant” staff at her local Jewish deli. Mum, on the other hand, preferred the convenient option and would pick up a variety of The New York Bagel Company’s finest exports from our local Waitrose. They were NEVER served cold, always sliced perfectly in half and – if we were really lucky – included a selection of onion, raisin and poppy seed varieties.

Although the smoked salmon and cream cheese combo was an obvious must when it came to weekend lunches, there were always a few alternative options to fill your bagel (or beigel) up good and proper. The usual suspects were egg and onion (much nicer than it sounds); tuna mayonnaise and usually some sort of fish paté. Occasionally mum would crack out a bit of brie – Nana preferred Port Salut – but never any ham (obvs).

Chicken soup with Kneidlach

When my great grandparents first settled in the urban, cramped, high-rise blocks of the east end of London, a slap up meal involved a little more effort than hot-footing it up the road to Shoreditch High Street. Food was scarce – as was space – and most families would make the best use of whatever nourishment was available to feed their own children, as well as anyone else who was in need in the community. Often, this meant a couple of vegetables and cheap cuts of chicken – often supplied by the local Kosher butcher. When left on the hob to bubble away in a cauldron of salty stock for hours on end, with the globules of fat carefully skimmed off, the end result wasn’t far from liquid gold. With the addition of Kneidlach dumplings (made from matzo meal and egg) plopped in for good measure, a vat of chicken soup provided a dose of essential nutrients; fed the entire family and lasted until the next payday.

My grandma’s version was like a glistening bowl of flavoursome medicine, and she was always more than generous when it came to the deliciously tender pieces of floating chicken breast. Mum’s is just as good – if not better – and never fails to make me smile on the saddest of days. Oh, and I don’t know if it’s nature, nurture or whatever, but mine’s pretty fucking tasty too.

Eggs: Every way

My mum’s earliest (and best) memories, involved clambering onto a London bus with my (fake) bling-laden, great-grandmother on her weekly pilgrimage to the hottest lunch spot that London’s Marble Arch had to offer. A greasy-spoon style café round the back of the Hilton hotel where she’d sit with opposite her grandmother and gorge on a big plate of fried eggs and chunky chips. My mum, by the way, has written about health for most of her adult life and has never worn anything bigger than a size 10. Yet, when it comes to brunch – she’ll take cheesy eggs on toast over avocado any day.

Potato laktes

Think hash browns/potato gratin/potato cakes and you’ve got yourself a crunchy, salty, tasty afternoon treat. My brother was always a bigger fan of them than I was, but when Nana presented them on a plate of kitchen roll  (to mop up the excess oil), fresh from the frying pan, I wasn’t going to say no. Potato latkes are commonly associated with the jewish holiday of Chanukah (the festive season around christmas time), however history would suggest that the creative use of a potato was more down to necessity than festive tradition.  According to www.ou.org, a mass crop shortage in eighteenth century eastern Europe led to an increase in potato farming, as they grew at a quicker rate than grains and could survive the tempestuous weather conditions. In the early 1900s, the jews were pretty much the poorest of all in eastern Europe and therefore, the inexpensive, humble potato was quite literally a godsend.

Pretty soon, the struggling jewish population figured out that not only were potato dishes varied and delicious, but the starchy spuds were a great nutritional source of B Vitamins, fibre, potassium, Vitamin C and, of course, energy. Pretty soon, my ancestors were grating, baking, frying and mashing the hell out of the things and somewhere amidst the desperate poverty of a cold Russian shtetl, the potato latke was born.

Cholent

The closest I have ever been to “keeping Kosher”, was in year 9 when I got freaked out after a trip to a farm and decided to go vegetarian. It lasted a month and I’m pretty sure I still ate sweets with gelatine in them, blissfully unaware that I was neglecting my new-found dedication to preserving the lives of animals.  Although my mum still refuses to have bacon in the house and makes a weird noise when I order prawns at a restaurant, we’ve never adhered to any Kosher requirements. My grandparents were much the same and although they’d source meat from a Kosher butcher and have Friday night dinner, there were no hard or fast rules.

My great-grandparents, on the other hand, were in keeping with the jewish tradition of the “Shabbat” ritual. From Friday night to Saturday evening, jewish families traditionally take ‘time-out’ from modern, busy life in order to re-connect with family, community and -more often than not – food. Back in the day (and still for some observant families today), this meant no electricity, no gas and certainly no manual work. Hence, meal options were pretty limited. Families resorted to chucking a hefty joint of meat (usually beef) in a large casserole dish, accompanied by pulses, vegetables, spices, barley and – of course – potatoes. On a Friday afternoon, this was taken to a local baker to cook in his oven beside the rest of the communities’ dinner pots, and come Saturday afternoon, great-grandmother’s alike would journey to collect their steaming pot of Cholent.

These days, we have slow cookers so the process isn’t as laborious, although I’d bet good money that a stew courtesy of Tesco’s electronic gadget isn’t a patch on Bubba’s 24 hour Cholent.