The Real Meaning of Matzah Balls

Rabbi Sara Mason-Barkin, 4.15.20 7th Day Pesach — Yizkor Congregation Beth Israel, Scottsdale, Arizona

This has really been a Passover like no other, hasn’t it? From the real life plague, to seders by zoom, to home-made matzah becoming a ‘thing,’ we will all remember this year. In many ways it has been difficult, we can’t deny that. But many #silverlinings, uniquely sweet and special moments to come out of a crisis, have come our way as well. One such silver lining was the immensely popular ‘Saturday Night Seder’ event.

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For the one of you out there who didn’t see it: this past Saturday a star studded line-up of celebrities and rock-star level rabbis came together to share Passover traditions, tell Passover stories, express their pride and connection to the Jewish community and above all, to raise money for the CDC. It was heartwarming to see this expression of Jewish identity and partnership, especially in a time when anti-Semitic murmurings are louder than we’d prefer and the Jewish community has felt more divided than ever.

There was a lot to love about the show. One story in particular took my breath away with its poignancy. It came, not from a big name celebrity, but from a Jewish Educator named Kendell Pinkney, a theater writer who helped to develop Kaleidoscope, a narrative-driven collection of monologues that highlight the experience of Jews of Color.

After Fran Drescher washed her hands for twenty seconds while singing the theme song from the Nanny, Pinkney spoke about his favorite tradition. He called it a ‘Memory Feast.’ He described a potluck meal where friends each bring a dish that evokes a memory. The sharing is not just the food of course, but also the stories — accompanied by the tears, the laughter, and the love.

As my husband and I watched the show, my belly was still full of seder leftovers: specifically, matzah ball soup that I had made earlier that week with my daughter. The day of the seder, she stood next to me on a stool at the kitchen counter. Together, we gently rolled the matzah balls, then dropped them carefully into the boiling water. I told her about how I used to do the exact same thing every Passover with my Grandmother, for whom she is named.

We were both surprised that they came out perfectly!

Yes, our seder was going to be small and zoom-dependent this year. But not even a global pandemic can keep us from the real meaning of matzah balls.

The seder is a memory feast. From the saltwater to the maror, each symbol on the seder plate is a chapter of our collective story, the story of our People, with a capital P. And whether your tradition is chopped liver or vegetarian tzimmis or home made gefilte fish, shulchan orech, the meal itself, is also the story of our people. (Lowercase.) On our table, we find my Grandmother’s matzah ball soup. My husband’s brisket. My mother’s mandel bread. In each bite we recognize the people who fill the seats around us, and the people whose chairs are empty, but whose presence is ever felt. And this year, the food brought our loved ones close even as we were physically distant.

In our Torah portion for the seventh day of Passover, we recall the first moments of the Exodus from Egypt. God begins to lead the Israelite's towards freedom, and the people follow — led by Moses, who carries with him a curious parcel. Our text reads, “vayikach Moshe et-atzmot Yosef imo,” And Moses carried with him the bones of Joseph (Exodus 13:19). This is the enactment of a promise made back in the book of Genesis. Rabbi Jill Hammer explains,

“Joseph seems less concerned with being reunited with those he loves than with giving the nation of Israel something to live for. By exacting this promise, Joseph makes sure that the people must remember who he is, remember where he is buried, and remember their connection to the land of Canaan. The oath to Joseph means his family cannot forget who they are.”

Joseph’s bones are not just a gruesome carry-on, but a physical reminder that in every generation we carry our memories like we carry our genetic code. Our memories are a part of us. They are the reason for the telling, the reason for the feast. The point of Grandmother’s matzah balls are not just because the soup is delicious, but because when my daughter has matzah meal all over her hands, just like I did, and my Grandmother did, she learns where she comes from. We feast on these stories. And we delight in the writing of each new chapter.

In the The Particulars of Rapture, Aviva Zornberg writes:

“Several times, the Torah itself emphasizes the importance of telling the story to one’s children and grandchildren. At certain moments, this imperative to narrate the Exodus becomes the very purpose of the historical event: It happened so that you may tell it… (4)”

In telling the story it becomes a part of us. One of my favorite Passover memories is when my son — probably 4 or 5 at the time — asked me, ‘Mommy, was I a baby when we were in Egypt?’ We smile, because it’s adorable. And, we smile… because we’ve succeeded. We’ve raised another generation that feels our history deeply. We’ve raised another generation who is ready to say “it is because of what God did for me as I was leaving Egypt.”

The precise purpose of Passover is to elevate memory. It is to remember where we come from, to remember who we come from. To know the stories of generations that came before as if they are our own — because they are.

And as we tell the story of our People’s exodus from Egypt, so too do we remember our people. We gather for yizkor to name the ones who have left us, the ones whose empty seats tug at our heartstrings. They are there in memories and morsels. And while it can be painful, and it can be poignant — it is also the point.

Like Moses, carefully carrying his ancestry across the sea, we too carry our loved ones. We carry them in favorite recipes and long held traditions.

We carry them in tales told to the next generation. We carry them in memories, and we carry them in stories. We carry them close. We carry them in our hearts, and we carry them in our bones.