I have a distinct memory from high school of having a bad day. Well, maybe it’s not that distinct—I don’t really remember why it was a bad day. Maybe the boy I liked ignored me, or hormones were fluctuating, or I got tough news about a grade. I remember getting into the car with my mom and starting to say that the only thing that would make me feel better would be—

“Chinese food?” she interjected. And she was right.

My entire life, Chinese food has been a comfort. Warm, flavorful, indulgent while still nurturing. Rice with too much soy sauce, General Tso’s spice, slurps of lo mein. My mom made kung pao chicken in our Appalachian kitchen and we had a rice maker when most of my friends did not. In moments of celebration, grief, or anger, it’s one of those cuisines I turn to that feels like home. And that’s funny, right? I’m a white Jewish woman in Western North Carolina. Why the tie to Chinese food?

Jews and Chinese food have a long-standing love story that’s about much more than just tasty dumplings and crispy egg rolls. It dates back to the early 20th century when Jewish and Chinese immigrants lived side by side in neighborhoods like New York’s Lower East Side. Chinese restaurants were one of the few places where Jews could eat out without worrying about blatant Christian symbolism or overt dietary clashes. Plus, the absence of dairy in Chinese cuisine made it easier to keep things kosher-style (even if not fully kosher).

The bond solidified during Christmas, a time when everything else shut down but Chinese restaurants stayed open. Over time, this became a comforting tradition—gathering for a feast on Christmas Day, as explored in Washington Jewish Week. The casual, inclusive vibe of Chinese food gave Jews a space to connect and create their own holiday ritual.

By the mid-century, this wasn’t just about convenience—it was culture. As Vox explains, Jews embraced Chinese food as a kind of culinary rebellion and as a symbol of their evolving American identity. It allowed them to participate in broader cultural habits without losing their own distinctiveness. And now? It’s tradition, nostalgia, and a delicious reminder of shared histories rolled into one bite.

Growing up in rural North Carolina, I’m sure you can imagine that access to Chinese food was limited. I have fond memories of my parents befriending the owners of a (now gone) Chinese restaurant in a strip mall at the top of a hill. We’d walk in, and they would greet us warmly, directing us to a booth and prepping my sister’s and my Shirley Temples. As two small girls, we devoured plate after plate at the buffet. Meals ended with fresh Chinese donuts brought directly to our table. I can’t vouch for the quality or authenticity (which, as a white lady, I really have no business commenting on anyway), but I remember the feeling of community. We were “othered” in our town, and we built relationships with other folks who could relate in their own way.

I’ve been battling depression since Helene touched down nearly three months ago. I’ll be okay, but it’s been hard. The other night, because he just knows what Chinese food does for my spirit, Craig said, “Let’s do China Grill tonight.” I lit up. We ordered our favorites, hopped in the car, and when we arrived, I gladly walked up to the counter. My usual chef/cashier was waiting for me. “Hello again!” she smiled.

As I sat down with our takeout that night, it struck me how deeply food connects us—not just to our own stories, but to others' as well. Chinese food isn’t just a comfort for me; it’s a testament to how two distinct cultures—Jewish and Chinese—found common ground in a new land. That connection speaks to the heart of what we are trying to do with Ashkelachian: blending traditions to create something that feels both familiar and entirely new.

Food carries our histories and reminds us that, even in the hardest times, we’re never truly alone. In every bite, there’s a story—a melding of resilience, adaptation, and creativity. And sometimes, all it takes to feel a little more whole is slurping noodles from a familiar take-out box or breaking bread with someone who knows your name. That’s the power of these intersections—they’re not just about survival; they’re about finding comfort, joy, and belonging in the tastiest places.

Mazel, bbs. 💋