The dinner table of my childhood was always a mosaic of cultures we celebrated: shredded meat with black beans, rice and plantains from my Venezuelan homeland; chicken schnitzel and Israeli salad for my father’s sabra roots; and coq au vin due to my mother’s love affair with Julia Child. Nothing about my upbringing suggested I would one day be cooking lentil stew, adzuki beans with kombu and creamy millet porridge. Yet, on the table of my tiny Tel Aviv apartment sat these three dishes, all of which I had somehow made.
It was my first year living away from home. I hadn’t moved a few towns or even a few states away; I’d crossed oceans, trading my life in Venezuela for a new one in Israel. My guests were a group of American college students I’d recently met and invited over for Shabbat dinner. One, a thin woman a few weeks shy of her 20th birthday, had beaten cancer and was convinced a macrobiotic diet played a major role in her recovery. Several others embraced that lifestyle in solidarity.
I, on the other hand, was more intrigued by the challenge of learning an entirely new cuisine. My kitchen lacked both a stove and an oven, but that had never stopped me before. I’d already mastered a classic French béarnaise sauce atop a single portable gas burner and baked impossibly delicate profiteroles in a beat-up toaster oven.
Until that year, I’d never even heard of macrobiotic dishes, but the meal proved to be a success. Before the last guest walked out the door, we’d already planned the next get-together. Soon, it became our Friday-night ritual. We’d squeeze around my coffee table, sharing stories between spoonfuls of mung bean stew and whatever new vegan dish I’d created that week. Laughter and steaming mugs of dandelion root tea carried us late into the night. What was on our plates mattered far less than who was gathered around them. These women became my support system — my chosen family during a time I needed family most.
Decades have passed since those boisterous evenings filled with unlikely food and unforgettable conversations. I’ve long since traded carob cake for chocolate, but I’ve never forgotten what those Friday nights taught me: Family isn’t just the one you’re born into; sometimes, it’s defined by the people who gather around your table.
Happy reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com