Dried fruit, spice blend is symbolic and evocative during Passover Seder
For the Journal-Constitution
Published on: 04/01/04
The first time I tasted Sephardic haroset (Spanish or Arabic Passover fruit mixture), I knew I was far from my Atlanta home. Unlike the pale Ashkenazic (European) chopped apple and nut mixture from my family's Seder, this combination was deep mahogany and thick with dried fruits softened under a mysterious blend of spices. When I asked the host of this large Portland family Seder what was in the haroset, she said lots and lots of raisins and dates. Spread on piece after piece of hard, dry matzo, I was grateful for it's smooth, rich texture and sweet, lingering taste.
Haroset, one of the elements of the Passover Seder plate, is prepared with various combinations of fruits and nuts depending on family background.
During the Seder (Passover begins at sundown Monday), it is eaten with bitter herbs, such as fresh horseradish, and matzo, to symbolize the mortar Jewish slaves made for laying bricks in Egypt. But to me, preparing fruits, juicy and sweet, warmed and softened, is the only way to balance the long Passover days minus soft bread.
According to Michael Strassfeld in "The Jewish Holidays: A Guide & Commentary," Passover matzo, whose only ingredients are flour and water, is lacking in sensory pleasure by design. Its flat, coarse texture is intended to remind us of the Israelites fleeing Egypt, in the middle of the night, with no time to let dough rise. Rootless and troubled, they wandered through a hot, dry desert with their unleavened bread or matzo, bravely searching for 40 years for their new home.
Along with honoring the long and difficult trials of Jewish liberation, Passover also by design falls in the spring. This, according to Strassfeld, is to remind us that every year, following the dark days of winter, the bright, blossoming days of spring always follow.
Eight years after pulling up roots from my Atlanta home, I remain uncertain as to where my new home will be. Recently, feeling weighed down by the financial and emotional price of my long journey, I called my mother for solace. As I cried into the receiver, she reminded me: "There will always be new beginnings."
So on the next day as I warmed soft dates, raisins and figs with spices for my haroset, I embraced the exotic scent. I looked out my small Los Angeles kitchen window, and instead of seeing the white stucco walls of the building next door, I imagined the deep, brave, footprints of a wandering people through a sprawling, lonely desert, their triumphant passage through the last shadowed sand dune, and finally the joy at waking one morning, under a pale yellow sun trickling through the shade of an oasis blooming with fruit trees.
Maybe that is why, throughout the long days of Passover, spread on piece after piece of matzo, I can't get enough of the rich, exotic taste of Sephardic haroset, or the feeling, that without leaving home, I would never have discovered this flavor, and that without the base of hard, dry matzo, softened, spreadable fruits wouldn't taste nearly as good.
Atlanta native Lisa J. Solomon is a free-lance writer living in Santa Monica, Calif.
DEL.ICIO.USFor the Journal-Constitution
Published on: 04/01/04
The first time I tasted Sephardic haroset (Spanish or Arabic Passover fruit mixture), I knew I was far from my Atlanta home. Unlike the pale Ashkenazic (European) chopped apple and nut mixture from my family's Seder, this combination was deep mahogany and thick with dried fruits softened under a mysterious blend of spices. When I asked the host of this large Portland family Seder what was in the haroset, she said lots and lots of raisins and dates. Spread on piece after piece of hard, dry matzo, I was grateful for it's smooth, rich texture and sweet, lingering taste.
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MOST POPULARDuring the Seder (Passover begins at sundown Monday), it is eaten with bitter herbs, such as fresh horseradish, and matzo, to symbolize the mortar Jewish slaves made for laying bricks in Egypt. But to me, preparing fruits, juicy and sweet, warmed and softened, is the only way to balance the long Passover days minus soft bread.
According to Michael Strassfeld in "The Jewish Holidays: A Guide & Commentary," Passover matzo, whose only ingredients are flour and water, is lacking in sensory pleasure by design. Its flat, coarse texture is intended to remind us of the Israelites fleeing Egypt, in the middle of the night, with no time to let dough rise. Rootless and troubled, they wandered through a hot, dry desert with their unleavened bread or matzo, bravely searching for 40 years for their new home.
Along with honoring the long and difficult trials of Jewish liberation, Passover also by design falls in the spring. This, according to Strassfeld, is to remind us that every year, following the dark days of winter, the bright, blossoming days of spring always follow.
Eight years after pulling up roots from my Atlanta home, I remain uncertain as to where my new home will be. Recently, feeling weighed down by the financial and emotional price of my long journey, I called my mother for solace. As I cried into the receiver, she reminded me: "There will always be new beginnings."
So on the next day as I warmed soft dates, raisins and figs with spices for my haroset, I embraced the exotic scent. I looked out my small Los Angeles kitchen window, and instead of seeing the white stucco walls of the building next door, I imagined the deep, brave, footprints of a wandering people through a sprawling, lonely desert, their triumphant passage through the last shadowed sand dune, and finally the joy at waking one morning, under a pale yellow sun trickling through the shade of an oasis blooming with fruit trees.
Maybe that is why, throughout the long days of Passover, spread on piece after piece of matzo, I can't get enough of the rich, exotic taste of Sephardic haroset, or the feeling, that without leaving home, I would never have discovered this flavor, and that without the base of hard, dry matzo, softened, spreadable fruits wouldn't taste nearly as good.
Atlanta native Lisa J. Solomon is a free-lance writer living in Santa Monica, Calif.
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