The Secret Ingredient

My mother, second from left, reunited with her sister and parents upon their arrival to the United States of America from Hungary. They arrived to America December 1956; photo taken June 1957. Statue of Liberty.
My mother, second from left, reunited with her sister and parents upon their arrival to the United States of America from Hungary. They arrived to America December 1956; photo taken June 1957.

My mom’s brisket brought us together. It still does. (Even though my sister and I have taken turns being the “family vegetarian,” giving up meat throughout the decades, and ironically, our mom fills that family role today.)

I look back on my blissful American childhood and find delicious memories of holiday tables, a crowded house of friends (extended family was scarce in Miami) and table-spreads of my mom’s incredible cooking. To this day, she insists she hates to cook, but I know she always secretly loves the outcome.

My mom is the daughter of Holocaust survivors. She moved to the United States from Hungary at the age of nine. Rather, her family fled further persecution. She says they hurriedly left with nothing but a handful of green apples. But 63 years later, it’s clear that they carried so much more with them: the value of connecting generations, the commitment of carrying on traditions, the universal sign of love that is feeding your family…especially important for people who were starved for years and whose children, spouses and parents died in concentration camps.

My mother’s brisket means loved ones around a table – in times of celebration and in times of sorrow. The savory aroma and velvety slices that melt into the tomatoey gravy mean full bellies and full hearts. The loving nudge for me to “take just a bite” means ending my many years as a vegetarian with the yummy taste of childhood to nourish the new baby growing inside of me.

Now that I’m a mom and a wife, I’ve attempted to make her brisket myself, but it’s yet to be as good as hers. My mom’s brisket is famous in the community. People who have jumped at the honor of an invite to her table know it. People who have received the gift of a home delivery in their times of need love it. People who have attempted to replicate the recipe have come close but have not perfected it like she has. There must be a secret ingredient.

And it’s that secret ingredient that sweetens my memories of the past and my dreams of the future and brings them all together…all unbelievably rich with flavor.

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