A Syrian Jewish Thanksgiving: Ham and kibbeh

As my parents and Sam embrace our new life, I sit there recalling a Thanksgiving in New Orleans when my father invited his father, Grandpa Sam, and his girlfriend, Christina, for dinner. My mother didn’t want to cook but agreed to since national holidays were all we had then as far as tradition went.

Nellie had offered to help. “I’ll make a ham,” she said.

Even though New Orleans was fourteen hundred miles from Brooklyn and the Syrian Jewish community, my parents exchanged guilty looks. It wasn’t that they’d kept kosher till then; they hadn’t. Right from the beginning, they agreed to put their Orthodox Jewish ways behind them, but a ham on the dining room table was a severe step, symbolizing a complete abandonment of culture and community.

“I don’t want Nellie thinking I don’t appreciate her. It’s not worth the risk. It’s not a big deal,” my mother said. “I mean, I don’t care, you don’t care, and your father certainly doesn’t care.” She shrugged. “When in Rome.”

“I’m not concerned about the ham, but no turkey?” My mother waved a dismissive hand. “Turkey’s always dry. Nobody eats it.” 

“I do,” my father said.

On Thanksgiving Day, my mother set the table in the dining room and placed her contribution, a paper turkey she’d bought from K&B, in the middle. In the kitchen, she slapped Oscar Mayer turkey slices on a plate and set that on the table too.

When Grandpa Sam and Christina arrived, my father pointed to the glass coffee table. “Sharon, maza?” He didn’t often speak Arabic.

“I didn’t make any. We’re going to eat soon.”

My father’s eyes darted to his father, and he pulled my mother to the side. With his father so close, he was utterly embarrassed by his wife’s lack of hospitality. Syrian women were taught to serve, and being shatra, hospitable, was highly valued. Syrian women were supposed to say fadal—welcome to my home—regardless of convenience, and their freezers were always full of maza—sambousak, kibbeh, laham b’ajeen, and eras b’ajweh—in case an unexpected guest should drop by. And even though my mother’s father was Syrian, her mother was an Ashkenazic Jew, her ancestors from Europe, not Aleppo, and these rules simply didn’t apply. 

“How many times have I told you to prepare appetizers when we have company?”

“The last time I made laham b’ajeen, you laughed at me.”

“You made a Syrian appetizer that’s supposed to be the size of a silver dollar into the size of a large pie from Pizza Hut.” 

My mother didn’t have patience for tedious work and considered laboring over Syrian delicacies a waste of time. My father had turned what she believed was a clever idea, combining tradition and modernity, into a shortcoming, and she didn’t appreciate being criticized. “It tasted the same,” she said.