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Research Note 
 
L’Dor V’Dor: Creating Comfort and Sharing Traditions in a Disembodied Time   
By: Rachelle H. Saltzman 
 

Abstract: During the seemingly endless pandemic years of 2020-21, the very act of 
making traditional family foods became an obsession for many. It is in the doing, the 
making of recipes, especially those from deceased family members, that we embody 
and thus perform our cultural heritage. Further, when we gift those labor-intensive 
foods to distant family members, we not only provide comfort for them, but we also 
create it for ourselves. 

Keywords: foodways, Jewish food, comfort food, pandemic, COVID-19, embodiment, 
family food 

 
It is a cultural and religious imperative for Jews to pass our knowledge and traditions on to 
our children and grandchildren, the stories that are told and retold, l’dor v’dor (trans. from 
the Hebrew, “from generation to generation”).1  
 
A conversation with folklorist Lucy Long a few years ago prompted me to think about 
“frameworks for exploring food narratives that go beyond just the consumption of food, to 
acknowledge the ways in which food connects into other domains of life” (Long 2020). 
Long was talking about Thanksgiving, traditional family foods, and the stories that such 
holiday gatherings and foods generate—in some ways as opposed to the conversations 
about decolonization that have consumed so many of us over this admittedly emotionally 
and politically fraught holiday. I immediately thought of Passover, which evokes similar 
ritual work and involves layers of narratives and the requirement that we retell the story of 
Exodus in every generation. This essay is in response to those thoughts, which started as an 
elaboration on an assignment in my foodways class on comfort and/or discomfort family 
foods. It has turned into a folklorist’s reflection on “comfort food as a personal and 
aesthetic response to the pandemic” (Long 2022). As Long has said, meaningful foods 
evoke narratives. 
 
Nearly all Jewish holidays encode Jewish cultural history. To celebrate Passover and 
Chanukah,2 for example, requires that we recount two of the foundation stories of the 
Jewish people and how we came to survive against all odds. Passover, in particular, is 
replete with iconic foods that serve as metaphors for key concepts and prompts for the 
annual retelling of the history of how we came to be who we are, as well as ways to encode 
our own values. The holiday requires that we re-enact and retell the origin narrative 
(Fredman 1981) of the Jewish people with a seder (trans. from the Hebrew, order). The 
seder is the ritual meal served in a particular order as outlined in the Haggadah, the 
“guidebook” (see figure 1) that provides instructions and commentaries as well as 
blessings, songs, and games.3 A seder plate (see figure 2) provides the literal setting for the 
key food symbols and indicates with pictures and Hebrew labels what goes where. Such 
foods provide emotional sustenance because they provide spiritual sustenance; they are 
imbued with meaning and carry family histories and memories as well as cultural history 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 64 

writ large as part of their essence. Without them, there is no structure to carry the stories 
we tell ourselves about ourselves, through time and the generations (Sherman 2002). 
There is a cultural imperative to having such foods in our lives and in very specific ways. As 
we re-enact our peoplehood, we also reproduce our own families and our relationship to 
the whole—concepts that change but still move from generation to generations, l’dor v’dor.   
 

 
Figure 1: Haggadot 
Photo by the author 
 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 65 

 
Figure 2: Seder plate with symbolic ritual foods 
Photo by the Author 
 
Besides the Haggadah, the ritual guidebook for the seder, there are several ritual objects 
that amplify and serve as prompts for the “official” version. They provide openings for 
alternative, even contestational, narratives—about the environment, civil rights, our 
responsibility as Jews for tikkun olam (repairing the world), refugees, and more. The seder 
plate, which provides the literal setting for the key food symbols, can be a piece of high art, 
a family heirloom, or a child’s craft rendition (see figure 3); it has both virtual images and 
their Hebrew names to indicate placement for the real/symbolic food. As those gathered 
for the holiday go through each prescribed step of the meal, the Haggadah prompts us to 
point to each food as its role in the tale unfolds.  



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 66 

 
Figure 3: Eva’s Passover Plate 
Photo by the author 
 
For individual families, there are myriad variations on just about every element of the 
Passover seder. Individuals, families, cultural groups, corporations (most famously, 
Maxwell House®), feminists, and political organizations create their own Haggadot (plural 
of Haggadah)—sometimes with explicit but often with implicit motivations (see figure 4).  



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 67 

 
Figure 4: Global Justice Haggadah 
Photo by the author 
 
Various versions of a Women’s Haggadah (Broner and Nimrod, 1994) started emerging in 
the 1970s (see figure 5); later additions such as Miriam’s Cup (of water) (see figure 6) on 
the seder table in 1994 (companion to Elijah’s Cup of wine) and then an orange to the seder 
plate (1980s) illustrate the emergent nature of the holiday (see figure 7). The latter 
references a modern legend that a rabbi proclaimed in reaction to the ordination of women 
rabbis that “a woman belongs on a bima [pulpit] the way an orange belongs on a Seder 
plate.”  



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 68 

 
Figure 5: Women’s Haggadah 
Photo by the author 
 

 
Figure 6: Miriam’s Cup 
Photo by the author 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 69 

 
Figure 7: Closeup of our Passover plate with a silver Miriam’s cup (next to traditional Elijah’s cup of wine) and 
an orange. 
Photo by the author 
 
For my own extended family, seders are redolent with family recipes from Lithuania via my 
maternal grandmother, some from Mollie Katzen’s The Enchanted Broccoli Forest cookbook 
(1982), and others from a couple of generations of American-born foodies. They are also 
the site of family lore from my grandparents’ generation at seders over 60 years ago; then 
from my parents, aunts, and uncles; and now from my cousins, me, and our children. The 
requisite ritual four cups of wine inevitably created spills and drips on wine-stained 
tablecloths as well as on the Haggadot, different editions that rarely matched each other for 
my childhood seders. Family members would chime in with stories about previous 
holidays—in Lithuania, at my maternal grandmother’s, at my aunt’s, and, more recently, at 
my cousins’ home in Oregon. After those long ago seders as well as at High Holy Day meals 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 70 

at my grandmother’s, someone would haul out the old photos—from Lithuania and from 
my mother’s, aunt’s, and uncle’s childhoods—all prompts for pre- and post-immigration 
family stories about gatherings, family characters, and food—always food, and stories 
about food. There was even a running joke during those annual seders that involved 
someone asking my grandmother where the string beans were (Ashkenazic Jews do not 
consume legumes on Passover because they could ferment); she didn’t have much of a 
sense of humor and always rose to the bait with annoyance. Today, at my cousins’ more 
politically explicit seder in Silverton, Oregon, we use revised versions of their 1980s’ 
homemade and equally stained set of Haggadot—full of references to revolution, prayers 
for resolution of the middle east conflict, pleas for refugees’ asylum, and social justice (see 
figure 8).  
 

 
Figure 8: Silverton Haggadah 
Photo by the author 
 
One of my family’s most emotionally-laden foods is tzimmes. In our tradition, tzimmes is a 
slow-cooked sweet and savory vegetable stew flavored with flanken (beef short ribs). It 
traditionally contains sweet root vegetables. In medieval Germany, these included parsnips 
and turnips (Marks 2010), then carrots sweetened with honey in the fifteenth century, and 
other vegetables added over time and space: white potatoes, honey, plums, or apricots in 
nineteenth-century Russia and Poland, and sweet potatoes as well as brown sugar and 
cinnamon once vast numbers of Ashkenazic Jews fled Eastern Europe for the United States 
(Nathan 2020).  
 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 71 

My grandmother always made tzimmes for significant Jewish holidays—Rosh Hashanah 
(Jewish New Year), for which sweet foods like apples and honey are emphasized to ensure 
a sweet year ahead, and Passover, which necessitates fiber-rich dishes to counter the 
effects of too much matzoh. Tzimmes was always more a special occasion dish—its very 
name means “make a big fuss” in Yiddish. And it can be a very fussy, time-consuming dish 
to make. I remember from those childhood seders that my maternal grandfather, my uncle, 
my father (who liked to make trouble), and one of my cousins would play fight over the 
scarce bits of tzimmes fleisch (literally flesh or meat). Tzimmes fleisch carried a lot of 
symbolic weight in terms of defining our family relationships; after my grandfather’s death, 
my grandmother would serve it first to her son, my uncle, and then to other family 
members in order of seniority.   
 
My grandmother also made potato kugel (pudding), which was cooked nestled into the 
soupy top of the tzimmes pot and steamed along with it. According to Joan Nathan (2020), 
this was indeed a Lithuanian Jewish version. Ordinarily, potato kugel—consisting of grated 
potatoes, onions, matzoh meal, eggs, salt, pepper, and chicken schmaltz (fat)—would be 
baked in the oven along with a chicken or beef brisket. It was special but not as special as 
the tzimmes, at least for some of the family. My older cousin and I vastly preferred the 
potato kugel itself—a recipe I made sure to get (see figure 9)—though I found myself in 
later years figuring out how to make tzimmes—for reasons that will make sense later.  
 

 
Figure 9: Potato Kugel Recipe from Ida Sachs 
Photo by the author 
 
My grandmother’s tzimmes never included the traditional prunes, and I was surprised to 
find many years later that a recipe in Katzen’s quasi-vegetarian The Enchanted Broccoli 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 72 

Forest cookbook recipe (1982: 204) does include prunes, which work as both a sweetener 
and as a substitute for meat in terms of flavor and texture. I don’t like prunes, but I thought 
I’d give this a try and was surprised to find it to be pretty good. I told my mother, who loved 
prunes, about the fruit’s inclusion, thinking this a great discovery. Apparently not! My 
mother explained that my grandmother never included prunes because my aunt disliked 
them. For my family, prune-less tzimmes IS traditional.   
 
Many years ago, when I was taking folklore classes in college, I interviewed my 
grandmother about her foods—the ones she made for her three children, their spouses, 
and her seven grandchildren who all lived within five miles of each other. She kept her 
recipes—clipped from the Forverts (The Jewish Daily Forward, a Yiddish newspaper), 
Hadassah Magazine, and various American women’s magazines—in a thick pekl (bundle) 
wrapped with a rubber band. She stored the bundle in her purse so that the recipes she 
didn’t carry in her head were always with her when she visited her children and their 
families on alternating weekends. To capture recipes for the dishes from her mother and 
others that were only in my grandmother’s head, I’d watch her and write down what she 
was doing. The tzimmes recipe was one of the unwritten ones. I never saw her making it, 
and I never thought to ask her about it. That was a source of much annoyance for my 
maternal aunt, who, over the years, has tried mightily to replicate it. Her version is rather 
soupy and doesn’t include the potato kugel on top. My own mother never prepared it, but 
since I’ve hosted Passover seders over the years and gone to Rosh Hashanah potlucks, I 
found myself committed to making it, even though I don’t really like it. But it represents 
tradition and family holiday meals to me—perhaps more than to others—so making it was 
a way of carrying on that tradition. 
 
My occasional tzimmes is a combination of my taste memory of my grandmother’s with 
Katzen’s ingredients. Following my own preferences, I have never made it with meat. I do 
use prunes—though not all the sweet spices that Katzen includes, such as cinnamon, 
nutmeg, and so on—I have stuck to my family’s aesthetic of savory rather than sweet. And I 
make the potato kugel on top. More recently, I served a deconstructed tzimmes with 
chunks of sweet potatoes, carrots, prunes, and white potatoes tossed in garlic oil and 
roasted together with some butter, salt, and pepper, but sometimes it’s just roasted sweet 
potatoes (see figure 10). 
 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 73 

 
Figure 10: Roasted sweet potatoes 
Photo by the author 
 
These days, I don’t always make the potato kugel because my husband and daughter don’t 
really like it. And I don’t do the more complex version that combines tzimmes and kugel 
when I’ve taken the dish to my cousins, who live over an hour and a half or so away from us 
in Oregon (see figure 11). 
 

 
Figure 11: Tzimmes with kugel chunks 
Photo by the author 
 
I have sometimes made and brought a separate potato kugel, but no one but me seems all 
that interested in it. My cousin, who prepares a massive seder (see figure 12) each year for 
dozens (many not Jewish), relies on me to make a more or less traditional tzimmes that for 
her side of the family (her paternal grandfather and my maternal grandfather were 
brothers). It doesn’t seem to include the kugel that steamed on top of the pot of tzimmes.  
 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 74 

 
Figure 12: Cousin’s seder table 
Photo by the author 
 
In 2020, however, COVID-19 changed so much of our lives. At the very start of the 
pandemic and lockdown, my cousin cancelled our annual Passover seder, which had for 
years been a gathering of four generations of extended cousins (see figure 13). My cousin, 
who takes great pride in her generous and inclusive gatherings suggested a summer 
seder—surely the virus would have run its course by then.  



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 75 

 
Figure 13: Cousin’s plate with matzah, homemade gefilte fish and beet-sweetened horseradish, and hardboiled 
egg 
Photo by the author 
 
We couldn’t skip Passover, and so I found myself making the seder just for the three in my 
immediate family: my husband, daughter, and me. Some honest conversations revealed 
that none of us really liked tzimmes. Instead, we preferred the simpler roasted root 
vegetables—as long as they were somewhat caramelized. I cooked for several days, and we 
tried to enjoy the meal, but doing so with such a tiny group felt incomplete (see figure 14).  
 

 
Figure 14: Our seder table set with my grandmother’s glass Passover dishes 
Photo by the author 
 
Phone calls with distant friends and family to compare notes on what we made and how we 
celebrated the seder helped to simulate a sense of togetherness, but the calls really weren’t 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 76 

enough. We found, though, that the food was critical. The specific dishes, which are 
symbolic for Jews in general, and those other foods, which are symbolic of family heritage 
for me and my relatives, were necessary for the ritual to be comforting. For me, personally, 
the potato kugel is the ultimate holiday comfort food; and this particular year, I needed the 
comfort, so I did make it for myself even though no one else wanted it. Alas, I neglected to 
photograph it.  
 
A few more months into the pandemic, and my uncle unexpectedly died—of COVID as we 
later learned. Another month, and my mother passed away, the day after her 99th birthday. 
My brother, daughter, and I were with her at the end, and we spooned her favorite coffee 
ice cream into her mouth—comfort for us in providing her with this treat and, we hoped, 
for her, as a sensory pleasure. Her death was not unexpected, but it was still difficult; 
because of the pandemic, her assisted living facility hadn’t allowed to visit her until near 
the end. Over the ensuing months, as it became apparent that the pandemic was not going 
away anytime soon, I found myself thinking about holiday baking for Rosh Hashanah, the 
Jewish new year in the fall (see figures 15 and 16),  
 

 
Figure 15: Apples and honey 
Photo by the author 
 

 
Figure 16: Apple cake with caramel and walnut topping 
Photo by the author 
 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 77 

and then for Chanukah in December (see figure 17). 
 

 
Figure 17: Latkes 
Photo by the author 
 
And what brought me comfort was to cook and bake many of my grandmother’s recipes, 
like chicken soup (see figure 18) and challah (special braided egg bread for shabbat) 
(figure 19).  
 

     
Figures 18 & 19: Chicken soup with matzah balls; Challah for shabbat 
Photos by the author 
 
I have always observed being Jewish via food—both eating and cooking--and the losses of 
this year made doing so an imperative rather than a choice. I wasn’t thinking about the 
why; I just knew that I needed to make my grandmother’s holiday treats, the comfort foods 
of my childhood.4 My grandmother, like many of her generation, did not follow written 
recipes, though she always had that ever-present rubber-banded bundle in her purse. My 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 78 

brother and I each had our favorites—mine were rugelach, rolled up crescents of cream 
cheese and butter pastry filled with ground cinnamon and nuts plus raisins. My aunt 
introduced the idea of raspberry jam, and we all embraced it, though my grandmother 
always complained about it; rolling up sticky dough spread with jam is a messy business, 
especially in warm, sticky weather (see figure 20). A traditional Chanukah treat, she also 
made them especially for my birthday in June—definitely an act of love to do so during the 
high humidity summers in the mid-Atlantic states.  
 

 
Figure 20: Rugelach with raspberry jam (left) and cinnamon, sugar, and ground pecans (right) 
Photo by the author 
 
My brother’s favorites were mandel (almond) bread, similar to biscotti (see figure 21), and 
what we called pink and white cookies, basically a butter cookie batter mixed with dried 
candied fruit, baked in strips, cut into bars, and iced with pink and white frosting (see 
figure 22). I had the recipes for both of his favorites, but I’d made the pink and white 
cookies only once before and never made the mandel bread [see figure 23]. Rugelach were 
always my favorite and my specialty.  
 

 
Figure 21: Mandel bread 
Photo by the author 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 79 

 

 
Figure 22: Grandma’s frosty fruity bars 
Photo by the author 
 

 
Figure 23: Mandel bread recipe by Ida Sachs 
Photo by the author 
 
I took on the personal challenge of baking all these cookies, keeping some for my daughter 
and husband, sharing some with local Jewish friends, and shipping off care packages to my 
brother and his family, my aunt, and my cousin, who, like my Jewish friends, well 
understood why they were meaningful and appreciated my efforts. As with the labor-
intensive hamantaschen (trans. from the Yiddish, Haman’s pockets—circles of rich, rolled 
dough, filled with a mixture of dried fruits and nuts or a poppy seed mixture, and pinched 
into three-cornered little tarts) that I make each year for Purim (see figure 24), it made no 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 80 

emotional sense for me to share with those who didn’t understand the work involved in 
making these treats as well as the symbolic resonance for our common Jewish identity. The 
meaning would have been diluted into the more pervasive sharing of holiday cookies that 
happens among many American families in late December. I found immense comfort from 
not just making these family sweets for myself, my husband, and my daughter, but 
especially from sharing them with far-away relatives who had experienced the same years 
of family holidays and the emotional warmth they created. Even sweeter was their 
thanks—my brother texted upon their arrival, “totally awesome. Great timing too. I’m 
tasting the love and warmth. Thank you all so very much!” My aunt texted, “your cookies 
arrived in great condition, and I’ve tasted the mandel bread—excellent!” 
 

 
Figure 24: Hamantaschen 
Photo by the author 
 
The comfort those foods offered was not just from the foods themselves but also from 
making and then sharing them with others. Folklorist Chrissy Widmeyer (2021) writes 
about a related concept,5 which she calls “performative intimacy, … the means through 
which relationships are performed into being” in reference to the group work involved in 
making family foods and the community work in making and gifting potato pies for a group 
of African American women—in both cases, sharing and thus performing, reaffirming, and 
recreating community. African American Jewish food scholar Michael Twitty also embraces 
the idea; for Twitty, food is about family: absent, extended, past, and present. For his 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 81 

research on the African roots of southern cuisine, he almost religiously tries to replicate 
those dishes as his ancestors would have prepared them on southern plantations. To 
become who we are is to embrace this actual embodiment of making and sharing food, an 
act made both more difficult and more powerful in the absence of bodies during this virtual 
world in which we all seem to dwell. 
 
Our family holiday traditions have changed from the ones of my childhood. It’s no longer 
the old photos that trigger stories and memories but the foods themselves, even if we don’t 
always have the same dishes. During most of the pandemic, my aunt, my cousin, and I had 
phone conversations and Zoom meetings to consult about recipes and preparation 
methods—memories substituting for real life gatherings. But the stories continue, though 
evoked by different foods now and different issues. To be “strangers in a new land,” as the 
Israelites were during their generations’ long sojourn in Egypt, means more to my husband, 
daughter, and me after our migration to Oregon a decade ago. And the ritual themes of the 
seder conversation—social justice, hunger, and what it means to be Jewish in the world 
today—means we are talking about COVID, the unhoused, Israel, the elections, and 
previous seders when we could all be together.  
 
These ritual holiday meals and our family foods have sustained us, yet during this endless 
pandemic time, sharing culturally symbolic or any foods has become challenging. At the 
same time, the very act of making traditional family foods has become an obsession for 
many, as it has for me, even though the sharing itself is most often virtual—via photos on 
social media and comparing recipes on Zoom screens. It is in the doing, the making of 
recipes as well as the sharing of family stories, which enables us to embody and thus 
perform our cultural heritage, even in the absence of face-to-face contact. And when we gift 
those labor-intensive foods to distant family members, we not only provide comfort for 
them (perhaps more so for ourselves), but we also recreate that heritage for ourselves. The 
narratives are embedded in the foods, stories about our elders and of their migrations, 
descriptions of times gone by, the tastes and smells encoded in the memories of past meals. 
With each generation, the story is remade and retold, l’dor v’dor, from generation to 
generation. We continue to seek relevance as we make our own places in the recounting, 
and watch our children take over and weave their own threads and food traditions into this 
creation story, our own virtual palimpsest.   
 
Note of acknowledgement: Huge thanks to Lucy Long for encouraging, supporting, and 
gently cajoling me to get this piece done. I’m forever grateful for our friendship, both 
personal and professional. I also want to acknowledge the creative space that Dr. Michelle 
Jacob, my colleague at the University of Oregon, provided with her Anahuy Mentoring 
Auntie Way Writing Retreats during 2021 and 2022. My having scheduled time to write 
along with the encouragement, support, and laughter from Michelle and the writing group 
were critical for writing and revising this piece and the two previous conference papers 
(American Folklore Society, Association for the Study of Food and Society) on which it was 
based.  
 
 



Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 82 

1 From the second commandment given to Moses on Mount Sinai, “Though shalt have no other Gods before 
me,” which is iterated in Exodus, and elaborated upon in Deuteronomy, 6:5-9 (starting with the V’ahavtah), 
“You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might. Take to heart 
these instructions with which I charge you this day. Impress them upon your children…” [italics added for 
emphasis]  (tbs-online.org n.d.). And see Deuteronomy 4:9, Based on Deuteronomy 4:9, "And make them 
known to your children and to your children’s children” [italics added for emphasis] (Durff 2016). 
2 Chanukah commemorates the successful rebellion of the Maccabees against the Seleucid Empire and the 
Greeks in the 2nd century BCE and the subsequent rededication of the 2nd Temple.  
3 While Passover commemorates a solemn history, there is much room and even encouragement in the 
Haggadah and during the seder for merriment, joking, and drinking games—the required four cups of wine 
do rather encourage the irreverent features of Passover. And the games, stories, and songs help to keep the 
children involved and entertained during what can be a long evening.  
4 I refer here to the concept of comfort food that Michael Owen Jones and Lucy M. Long articulate in their 
introduction to Comfort Food: Meanings and Memories (2017). 
5  “In another case, I examine how a community group gifts sweet potato pies to build relationships across 
gaps in their community, engaging in an African American and southern food tradition and using intimate 
performatives to achieve social justice goals. The group insists that pies must be accepted with an 
understanding of the dialogue they are meant to initiate. Accepting pies when they are given, for instance, to 
the victims of police violence and the police themselves allows the pies to bring two sides of the community 
together for discussion” (Widmayer 2021). 

                                                            

 
 

  

https://www.sefaria.org/Deuteronomy.4.9?lang=he-en&utm_source=aju.edu&utm_medium=sefaria_linker


Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 9:2 (2022) 83 

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https://www.tbs-online.org/worship-prayer-vahavtah/
https://www.tbs-online.org/worship-prayer-vahavtah/

