It’s an old one, but a classic nonetheless.
My mother used to make her brisket by cutting off a piece on each end. Not a big piece, mind you. About a quarter of an inch each way. Her mother did it this way, and her mother before her. No reason why, really. That was just what they did, no questions asked.
Until they were. By me, of course.
The reason? The original pot was too small for the brisket.
[Ba da dum]
I’ve been thinking a lot about rituals lately, about how the how we do something often times matters far more than the why. Every year, in some way shape or form, my family Seder involves puppets, although my sister and I have long aged out of them, but to us, it feels right. Just like home.
I think that’s just it, it’s a way back, and a way of belonging. There are things I do because my parents have done them before me and theirs before and so on. In doing so, we learn how to go on, and how to live, when the day to day might seem too much.
All of which is to say, I had all sorts of post planned, but I was busy with work and with my planning. And, then it hardly seemed to matter. I got busy with other things. I’m being evasive, yes, but that hardly seems to matter either.
What matters is this: simply put, so much of food and life is based on routines, with good reason. If you can find your way back to the table, you’re on your way. So, I’ll be back soon, in full throttle, and there will be cooking lessons involved. [First up, bagels. You know who you are, and you’ve been given fair warning…]