Chicken soup is a food that’s pretty hard to mess up and has a hundred different variations depending on what family is making it. However, the base is typically the same: chicken, onion, celery, carrots, and a bit of time to let it meld together. Unfortunately, my family doesn’t have a lot of recipes that have been passed down- My Nana has her apple pie and “secret recipe punch,” but there are no real ties to heritage or culture through those foods; it’s more of a sense of tradition. Matzo Ball Soup is the closest my family has to food tying us to culture.
My Dad is Jewish, and while he left the religious aspect of raising children to my mom (Catholic), we still celebrate Jewish holidays. As I’ve gotten older, it’s become more important to me to stay connected with that side of my family. Latkes, we would always buy frozen or from a deli; Brisket was the same, as was chopped liver. The only dish we would always make at home and from scratch was Matzo Ball Soup. Cooking was usually my mom’s area, but the one thing I could count on every April for Passover was a massive pot of my Dad’s Matzo Ball Soup.
I’ve always known my grandma had a penchant for the finer things. I remember her intricate table settings for Thanksgiving and the special table in the dining room we were never allowed to eat at (We finally did in 2021 right before they sold their house). The thought of her working over a stove making something as simple as Matzo Ball Soup is comforting. Coming home from school ten years ago to my dad making the same is even more so. The smell would fill the house and the second you came through the door you knew that Dad’s home, and he made us soup.
During my first year of college, covid made it so my family was home together for Passover for possibly the last time. The following year I was at school—no kitchen in my dorm and no way to make matzo ball soup. So I walked to the neighborhood Walmart and grabbed everything I needed, dragging bags of vegetables, chicken, grape juice, and apples over to my friend’s apartment to make Matzo Ball Soup. The pot was too small, and I didn’t have enough time, but I made Matzo Ball Soup and set up a Sedar dinner for my friends and me. None of them had ever celebrated Passover before but were willing to learn and celebrate with me.
I did it again the year after. This time I had a kitchen in my dorm. Although the counter space was sparse, and we ate the Passover dinner on paper plates, I still made sure we celebrated.
This year is my last year at college. When I was home for Thanksgiving, I grabbed a stockpot from my home. As I got into the car, my dad told me he used to brew beer in the same pot before I was born. Before we left the driveway he reminded me that the trick for good soup is “Chicken thighs and lots of carrots.”
He knows I’ve made soup several times and can do it from memory, but I think it’s as important to him to pass it on as it is to me to keep it going. That pot is in my kitchen, waiting for the next cold day to make Matzo Ball Soup.
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