This Friday, I’m practically buzzing with excitement. We’re having a big family Shabbat dinner, and it’s stirring up so many memories from my childhood. Every Friday, my cousins, my sister, and I gathered at my grandparents’ house for Shabbat. On early-dismissal days, my grandpa would even pick us up from MJDS and bring us straight there. The moment we walked in, the smell of fresh challah, soup, and warmth greeted us like a hug.
Sometimes we helped set the table or stir something in the kitchen, and other times we just played and basked in being around my grandparents. Then, as the week came to an end, the whole extended family would trickle in: parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, my great aunt and great uncle, and whatever friends or guests happened to join.
Their midcentury modern home glowed softly with Shabbat candles. Everyone greeted each other with hugs and kisses before settling in to catch up about their week. There was a comfort, a rhythm, a sense of belonging that felt almost magical.
And then came the food. My grandparents loved a full, abundant Shabbat meal. We’d start with half a grapefruit (a tradition I’ll never forget), then Kiddush, motzi over the challah, and a forspice—chopped herring, hummus, egg salad, gefilte fish, or whatever they felt like making. Then soup, then salad, then a main meal with multiple proteins and sides, and finally dessert and fruit. It was a feast in every sense.
At some point the kids would slip away to build a fort, put on a fashion show, or rehearse a play for the grownups. And as the night wound down, everyone helped clean up before heading back out into the quiet of Friday night.
As we all got older, life pulled us in different directions. My grandparents moved to a smaller place, and it became harder for them to host. Still, we tried to keep the tradition going. When I got married, I found myself loving the role of Shabbat host—filling my home with friends, family, and newcomers to town. That sense of community always grounded me.
That’s why this Friday feels so special. Many of my cousins will be in town, and recreating even a piece of that feeling again fills me with joy. I’m a little sad that only one of my kids will be there, but that’s part of life—kids grow, plans change, and time moves fast.
Shabbat may be rooted in Jewish tradition, but the heart of it—a weekly pause, a shared meal, taking a breath, and coming together with people you love—is something everyone can benefit from, regardless of background. In a world that moves so fast, creating intentional moments to slow down, connect, and nourish ourselves (and each other) feels more essential than ever.
Maybe that’s why I keep thinking about hosting more often again. Maybe my house should have an open-door policy. Or maybe I really do need to join a commune (kidding… mostly). I digress.
Change is hard. Watching your kids grow up is emotional. Longing for community is human. But traditions—whatever form they take—give us stability and an anchor when everything else feels like it’s shifting.
I’ll always remember Mimi dressed as Princess Elsa saying motzi, Rebecca confidently leading Kiddush, or Eva carefully setting the table with handmade place cards. Those moments might belong to a different season of life, but they continue to shape me.
And they remind me how much I want to keep the essence alive—through family dinners, inviting friends for Shabbat, and sharing that sense of peace, connection, kibbitzing, and delicious food that defined my childhood Friday nights.
Feeding people is my love language. Building community is my joy. And knowing that our food can help create space for tradition, connection, and slowing down—no matter who you are or where you come from—feels like the greatest gift.
