Tag Archives: sitting shiva

July 27, 2026 · 7:30 am

A Kugel Story

by Hillary Powell (Brooklyn, NY)

We crowded into a small apartment in Brooklyn after my mother’s second cousin’s funeral. My maternal grandmother was one of six children and maternal grandfather one of five. In many ways this childhood memory blurred into others, of crowding into living rooms across the tri-state area for reunions and gatherings, often meeting cousins I never met before and never saw again. 

But this shiva (circa 1980) stood out. The mood was somber and Rose, my widowed second cousin, looked wrung out, her face gray, her eyes rimmed red. Then cousin Susan brought out an unusually delicious golden, sweet noodle kugel. I recall Rose grieving, processing her loss openly, “I am just so sad Richard didn’t get here in time to say goodbye to his father.” Yet with each bite of kugel, her eyes lit up. “Have you tasted this noodle kugel?” she asked the mourners. We all began to try the kugel, to discuss how extraordinary it was, finding a bit of joy on that sad day. 

Nearly half a century later, after the unimaginable events during the weekend of December 13th, 2025, it seemed necessary to bake and share the most comforting of Jewish comfort foods. Over this weekend, tragic events unfolded in less than 48 hours: shootings at Brown University and MIT; an antisemitic terrorist attack at a Chanukah celebration on Bondi Beach in Australia; and the murder of Rob and Michele Reiner, likely by their own son. All of these events rattled me, even as these acts of violence have become shockingly commonplace. 

This time, one event was too close for the numbness to settle in quickly as it often does after the initial news flash.  My niece is a sophomore at Brown and hid in her dorm closet during the shooting. My sister called me a few days later. After rushing to get my niece safely off campus and home, she finally broke down, her emotions bursting the dam she had built to stay strong for her daughter. I did my best to soothe, reassure, and focus on the unfathomable idea that my niece’s survival was some kind of good luck. 

I couldn’t do much to ease all this pain, but I needed to do something. “I’m making kugel!” I announced. My children, accustomed to my mom’s fluffy but raisin-filled kugel, had a request, “No raisins, please.” I wanted the kugel to be light and fluffy the way my mother makes it. But I was also determined to capture the power of that legendary kugel from so many years ago.

What made the kugel from my second cousin’s shiva extra delicious? Those details were murky. Was it a streusel topping? Was it something else? In any event, I thought a streusel topping would be a good sweet substitute for raisins.  

Searching online, I found a kugel recipe with a streusel topping, but the recipe called for cream cheese which I know my mom doesn’t use for her fluffy kugel, and it needed to be fluffy — a light-hearted, flexible, resilient kugel! I worried the cream cheese would make it too dense. I asked my mom for a recipe, but she said she bakes it from memory and changes it every time, which is exactly what a Jewish grandma would say. 

I found a recipe with the ingredients my mother uses—many eggs, sour cream and cottage cheese. I combined the streusel topping recipe with the fluffy kugel recipe, baked a sample kugel and assessed. I took that first bite and determined it was not the Platonic noodle kugel I had imagined. It didn’t quite match the memory I had of that perfect kugel from years ago. But I also began to recognize that perhaps this quest was quixotic. I was attempting to recreate a feeling as much as a flavor, and I decided this kugel was pretty delicious and close enough.

In the end, I baked four noodle kugels for four holiday events over two days, coping with the tragedies of the week, of the year, of this era. The whisk of the mixer made yolks disappear into a rich custard that then coated bouncy noodles. My spirits were buoyed momentarily as the sweet “incense” rose like a prayer, as the casseroles stopped trembling and finally set, transformed by a warm oven into a delicate but steady soufflé. I stacked them in the refrigerator, leaving no room for regular, everyday groceries. It was time to share them.

At one friend’s party, an Italian woman who had never tasted kugel asked the host, “What is this crack casserole?” People hovered over the last piece, and it was eventually divided up. Introducing a tradition to those unfamiliar with Jewish culture felt especially gratifying in this challenging moment for Jews. 

There were leftovers from the second party, and my friend brought them to her own cousin, who has a chronic illness and almost no appetite. But just as I recalled from years ago, the kugel was somehow restorative. It was the one food my friend’s cousin could enjoy and she requested the recipe so her caregiver could bake it the next day.

One kugel was for a Chanukah gathering with my sister’s family. I gave two servings each to my niece and my sister like it was medicine.

There are no comfort foods that can completely heal us all right now, that can bring back lives that have been lost and ease all our pain. A kugel is not magic; it cannot make cohesive what is fractured. But it is not nothing either to fill our homes with the scent of butter and cinnamon, watch brown sugar toppings caramelize and bubble, and share this decadent holiday treat with our loved ones, friends, and even strangers. Mixed together, eggs, soft cheese, butter, sour cream, sugar, salt, cinnamon, vanilla, and springy noodles bond gracefully and gently, becoming something better than each ingredient alone.

Hillary Powell works as a grant manager for Covenant House New Jersey, a nonprofit that serves youth experiencing homelessness. She is also a singer-songwriter. HIllary lives with her husband and two kids in Brooklyn, N.Y. Her website can be found at this link: https://www.hillarypowellmusic.com/. 

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February 24, 2025 · 7:30 am

Saying Kaddish for an Unworthy Parent

By Karin Joy Sprecher (Newton, MA)

Dear Friend,

Though I could not attend your Shiva in person – my husband stood there for both of us – I’ve thought of you every day since our conversation when you borrowed my mother-in-law’s wheelchair.

Funerals are never easy. Shivas are even more difficult, especially when the relationship was less than ideal or even fraught and sad and painful. 

How does one sit Shiva for someone who often caused us pain? How does one say Kaddish for a parent who was also mean, nasty, down-right abusive?  Two different rabbis and a cantor, in different ways, gave me essentially the same message: try sitting Shiva & saying Kaddish not for who that parent actually was. Instead, try sitting Shiva … try saying Kaddish for the parent you did not have, but that every child deserves.

I had my doubts.

But I was truly surprised that, over time, it felt not only like something I could do.  It felt right! 

What the rabbis and cantor specifically said — that there was a place in Jewish practice which not only acknowledged imperfect, damaging parenting and how that affected one’s ability to follow Jewish rituals for death and mourning — eventually became, for me, very powerful.  It enabled me to find solace in rituals which originally seemed inappropriate, even untenable.

It gave me a place to sit with other mourners in community, even if my feelings were different, even if my raison d’être for being there was the opposite of what others were experiencing.

Over time I remembered there were other warm, loving, nurturing adults in my life who, intentionally or not, filled a parent-like role in my life. Those who became role models for good parenting. Those who enabled me to become the kind of parent I wanted to be … the kind of parent I needed to be … for my children … because  I saw the way they parented their children. 

I saw that their children felt seen, were nurtured, were loved just as they were, whose strengths were appreciated and whose negative behaviors were lovingly redirected. I saw what was possible, and I saw its wonderful effects. I saw what I believe every child needs and deserves.  And, through parenting my own children, I finally realized that I was becoming the parent I deserved to have as a child.

By the end of saying Kaddish, I gratefully realized that there were people in my life who truly loved me, nurtured me, just as I was. They were my “real” parents, just not my biological parents.

Karin Joy Sprecher, an artist specializing in Judaica, was inspired to begin writing again the year before Covid shut everything down thanks to a Hebrew College class  “Writing Through a Jewish Lens: A Jewish Women’s Writing Workshop.”  She lives with her husband in Newton, MA, where she continues to sing, virtually, in Jewish choirs and take online classes in Jewish and secular subjects.

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May 29, 2023 · 6:30 am

I Wanted to Be More Jewish

by Carol Blatter (Tucson, AZ)

My dad died of lung cancer on January 16, 1965. I was twenty-two. I remember Mom and me trying to find his tallit to be used in his burial which was tucked away somewhere in the apartment. Luckily we found it. Do I ever remember him wearing his tallit? No. Why would he? He didn’t go to synagogue on the Sabbath to engage in prayer. Nor on other holidays either. 

Because he had a hard life and had to work long hours including on Shabbat and on Jewish holidays, he left behind any Jewish observance. (I am assuming that he had some Jewish education in his childhood but I never had a way of verifying or refuting this. All my dad’s  family are deceased).

Jewish practice could not heal his losses. He lost his dad when Grandma locked his dad out permanently for his abusive behavior. Dad, the oldest child, lost his childhood when he became a dad for his family. He lost the love and attention from his mom, my grandmother, who was raising Dad’s three younger siblings. He lost an education when he dropped out of school in eighth grade to support his family. He lost his sense of self-esteem and the ability to earn a good living in his adult life. 

I grew up in a Jewish and Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn, NY. I always knew that I was Jewish. Most of our neighbors were Jewish. An Italian family lived next door. I thought that we had a good relationship with them. Maybe it was a superficial relationship because we were of different faiths. Thinking back I realize they never came to our apartment. Did my parents ever invite them even for a cup of coffee and chat? Did they ever invite us to their apartment for a cup of coffee and a chat? Not that I can ever remember.

We had a dance toward the end of sixth grade before graduation. John Mortorello, a very nice Italian boy, asked me to the dance. When I told my parents, Dad was incensed. He probably said something like, I can’t believe that you are going to a dance with an Italian boy. He was visibly upset. It’s hard to remember my reaction. I wanted to go to the dance and I was content to go with John. Mom didn’t say anything. I don’t think I knew much about prejudice. But I was beginning to learn. I still went to the dance with John. Did Dad have bad memories of having been beaten up by some Italian and Irish kids when he was a kid? Does that explain his reaction? 

Did he fear that eventually I would meet and date and, perhaps, marry a non-Jewish boy? I have no idea what he thought. 

Dad had an ice cream parlor and luncheonette when I was growing up. Many Syrian Jews frequented the store. For some reason Dad kept complaining about the Syrians. Why complain about the customers who brought income into the store? And why pick on other Jews just because they originated in Syria? Not from Minsk or Pinsk or Brooklyn? Not Ashkenazi Jews? Were their skins darker than ours? Did they have accents that made it difficult for them to be understood? I wonder what dad really feared. What I do know is that he feared the goyim. But Sephardic Jews are not the goyim. 

Dad and I never talked about our religion. I don’t think that I learned anything about our Jewish traditions from Dad. Showing was a way of teaching, and Dad was not a role model for Jewish practices.

My recollection is that neither Dad nor Mom went to the neighborhood synagogue on Kol Nidre night nor on the following day. I have my doubts that they prayed at home and fasted. I never saw this happen. What was strange was Dad taking on the role of a taskmaster on Kol Nidre night. I can still hear him telling me what I wasn’t allowed do. I couldn’t turn on the radio. I couldn’t watch TV. I couldn’t read. There wasn’t anything I was allowed to do. What was going on with Dad? Why this strange behavior? Why was he so harsh? So dictatorial? When did Dad ever tell me what to do or not do on other Jewish holidays? Not once that I can remember. In telling me the rules of Yom Kippur as interpreted by my dad, perhaps he was assuaging his guilt for his own non-observance. He could tell himself he was a good parent keeping me in line Jewishly. It is as if he fulfilled his obligations as a Jew even when he didn’t.

I was ten and in fifth grade. I told my parents that I wanted to fast on Yom Kippur. They appeared shocked and surprised. Imagine seeing my parents standing there frozen like two statues facing a traumatic event. I wondered. Did they think I was too young to make an informed decision? Did they think that I might die if I fasted? After their brief whispered chat, they agreed I could fast but only until 3 PM. I was ok with that. But they didn’t say anything about fasting with me.

I’m thinking back to when my dad sat shiva for his dad. I was eight years old. It confirmed that  my dad had some knowledge of Jewish traditions. He followed the Jewish practice of mourning for his dad. Despite a life-long fractured relationship, he knew he had to sit shiva. He had to say goodbye to his dad in this traditional way. Maybe in his dad’s death, he forgave him.

Thinking about all the main Jewish holidays, Sukkot, Purim, Passover, Shavuot, Rosh Ha’Shanah, Yom Kippur, and Chanukah, I can’t remember any family celebrations. I don’t know if I knew so little about these holidays that I didn’t feel a sense of loss. Maybe in a subconscious way, I did. Somewhere in my childhood, I decided I wanted to be more Jewish. Where this came from I have no idea. But it has shaped my entire adult life. 

I’m proud to be an observant Jew.

—

Carol J. Wechsler Blatter is a recently retired psychotherapist in private practice. She has contributed writings to Chaleur Press, Story Circle Network Journal and One Woman’s Day; stories in Writing it Real anthologies, Mishearing: Miseries, Mysteries, and Misbehaviors, Real Women Write: Growing/ Older, Real Women Write: Seeing Through Their Eyes, Story Circle Network’s Kitchen Table Stories, The Jewish Writing Project, Jewish Literary Journal, New Millennium Writings, 101words.org, and poems in Story Circle Network’s Real Women Write, Beyond Covid: Leaning into Tomorrow, and Covenant of the Generations by Women of Reform Judaism. She is a wife, mother, and grandmother. 

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September 28, 2015 · 7:00 am

Sitting Shiva

by Leslea Newman (Holyoke, MA)

Mirrors are covered
Wooden benches are set out
Have a good mourning

Where’s the coffee pot?
I ask my father, who knows
my mother would know

Welcome. Please come in.
Sit anywhere. Except there!
That’s my mother’s chair

Ancient Hebrew prayers
cannot bring my mother back,
so what good are they?

My aunt spills her tea
when I speak to her softly
in my mother’s voice

White coffee cup smeared
with my mother’s red lipstick.
Don’t you dare wash it.

Chocolate rugelach
my mother and I both love
clog my throat like mud

My mother’s old friend
cups my face with both her hands
Fingers wet with tears

My aunt stands to leave.
“Call if you need anything.”
I need my mother.

Lesléa Newman is the author of 70 books for readers of all ages including the poetry collections, I Carry My Mother and October Mourning: A Song For Matthew Shepard (novel-in-verse) and the picture books A Sweet Passover, My Name Is Aviva, and Ketzel, The Cat Who Composed.

If you’d like viewing the book trailer for I Carry My Mother, visit:

“Sitting Shiva” copyright © 2015 Lesléa Newman from I Carry My Mother (Headmistress Press, Sequim, WA 2015). Used by permission of the author.

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