“I just don’t know why anyone would care to hear my perspective.”

I wept gently on Zoom with my therapist last week, sitting on my deck for our session. It was finally nice enough for me to be outside without a jacket at 5:23pm. I was still reeling from an earlier tough meeting with my CEO, I could see my husband walk to the mailbox, I could hear my beloved housekeeper (and friend) vacuum inside. Despite the whirling span of things around me, I still was focused on her.

“Well, are you trying to represent all Jewish people with your project? Or professional chefs?” she inquired. She is always so kind and patient with me. I call her my gossip doctor, but she’s my most trusted confidant as well.

“No, of course not,” I replied, wiggling uncomfortably in my seat.

“Then who is this for?”

I take a moment to respond to her carefully. This is something we have talked about at length—how I am intentional with words and like to pause and think before I share feelings that are big. It’s something I’ve fallen in love with about myself in the past year, and something I seek in my relationships with others.

“Well, for someone who is curious. For those who have felt unseen before. Not necessarily just for Jewish people, but also for folks who love Jewish people. For folks who like to cook and try new things,” I finally got out. My therapist smiled.

“Well, that sounds like a good audience,” she validated.

The project

Back in 2022, I was recovering from what felt like two years of chaotic self-discovery. After being sequestered for nearly two years due to the pandemic, I had what felt like infinite time to evaluate so much about my identity.

The activist self I have been the majority of my life came to the forefront in ways it hadn’t before. Protesting in the streets of Asheville for Black Lives Matter, abortion access, universal healthcare, and more fell into the rotation of my weekend planning. I was volunteering at least once a month at Planned Parenthood, being screamed at by insane conservatives for two hours straight, all while I was trying to escort patients to their appointments. I was participating in anti-racist books clubs and socialist feminist discussions.

Being known as “the busy one”, a label I had always resented but took on the chin when others called me such, was not something I wanted anymore. I started really contemplating the difference between availability and being free.

My identify at work had shifted. I was no longer the bubbly, conflict-avoidant gal in Customer Experience, but as the sole HR employee, becoming a serious advocate for employee benefits, company culture, and standing up for myself (and others) in ways I had never considered before.

I started coming out to myself in early 2020, then came out to my husband in 2021, and finally started identifying as queer and pansexual openly in 2022. It was the most free I had felt my whole life. Kind of like you’ve been wearing the wrong size bra your entire adulthood, and then FINALLY you put on one that fits. Reflecting back, there had been so many signs and opportunities to know my queerness so much earlier in my life, but it was the privacy of quarantine that allowed me to process and understand this part of me. I also have so many queer friends and family to thank for their patience and providing space, and of course my wonderful husband, who has been nothing but celebratory. It hasn’t changed the mechanics or day-to-day of who I am or our marriage, but his support has been everything.

So, it seems only natural that one of those pieces left to discover about myself was my faith. I had been raised Jewish in the heart of the Bible-belt. My mother—a West-coast Ashkenazi Jew—did what she could with the extremely limited (read: zero) resources she had at her disposal in Appalachia. Being Jewish was something I knew to be proud of, but I often feared. Because she was so open about it, the whole town knew who we were and that we were different.

My father actually grew up in this small town he had moved my family to, and was from a well-known hillbilly family. I often think of their marriage not unlike that of Oliver Wendell Douglas and Lisa from Green Acres (a favorite show of my childhood). My glamourous, city-gal of a mother and my work-consumed, goofy dad seeking refuge in simple country life. I genuinely believe that they thought moving us here was best for the family. Quiet, rolling hills with sleepy mountain folk, the kind of things you would see in a show like Green Acres or Andy Griffith. There’s no way they could anticipate the antisemitism and harassment that would follow their girls all around this small town.

I want to share some of these stories. I want to share the triumphs. But that’s not the point of this first post.

After years of enduring both countless microaggressions and straight-up hate, I have started to find peace and pride in this part of my identity. A critical component of this has been teaching myself how to cook Ashkenazi cuisine. For so long, many people have thought of bagels and schmear being all that Euro-centric Jews have to offer. I just knew there was more to it. So, in 2022, I embarked on a journey of researching, creating, and sharing Ashkenazi recipes on my personal Instagram. I got great feedback and it was more healing than I could have ever imagined.

In 2023, I decided to take it a step further. To reclaim and make amends with the Appalachian part of my identity—a region and family I adore, despite hardships—I decided to weave in traditional Southern and Appalachian ingredients and recipes as well. This involved more experimentation, curiosity, and joy. The result?

Well, I call it Ashkelachian cuisine.

And I’m ready to share it with y’all.

So, who is this for?

This is primarily for my parents. My mother—a brave, resilient woman—who raised two Jewish women in a place where people didn’t want her to. My father—a sincere, dedicated man—who raised two Appalachian girls who ain’t afraid of possums or eating ramps.

For my sister—my loudest cheerleader and the only person in this world it feels understands what this project means, and what I’ve gone through to share it with you all.

For my husband—the kindest, most patient man I’ll ever know, who tries every dish and offers gentle suggestions and loves every part of me, with no bounds.

It’s for the people who don’t feel enough. I didn’t want to start this blog and write everything down and share it publicly because I didn’t feel enough. I’m not Jewish enough. I’m not a good enough home chef. I’m not interesting enough. I’m not enough, plain and simple. It’s a wound that’s plagued me since I was small. But I don’t have to be enough for anyone but myself. And this project—these recipes, these moments, sharing them with you—is important to me. And I’m so excited to share it, now that I’ve been bold enough to put this first post down. Maybe you’ve felt that way about yourself too. You’re enough to be here, to try new things and explore a different voice.

And I guess it’s for you too. Maybe you’re a friend of mine that I love and constantly seek reassurance from (thank you). Maybe you’re someone who has followed my journey thus far and is hungry for more. Maybe you stumbled upon this and are very confused. In general, what I ask from my readers is this:

Curiosity. Kindness. Understanding. Joy.

What can you expect?

Recipes! Essays. Good writing and good food. Authenticity from yours truly (sorry, I can’t be any other way). I’m going to post at least every other week. Maybe more!

And when I feel like I’ve said what I needed (for now): a published ‘zine, full of Ashkelachian recipes, that you can hold in your hands and enjoy any time. To put that out into the universe brings out big feelings for me.

My ancestors would be like “Ahhhh! Good for you! What’s a ‘zine?'“.

Mazel, babies. 💋

Share