Thanks to Debs Gardner for this great guest post. Debs maintains the food blog, Seattle Local Food.

It was Friday morning at the Hazon conference, and we were already deep in weighty conversations about social justice and corporate food production. We’d watched The Garden, a documentary about Latin American immigrant farmers protesting destruction of a gorgeous 14-acre garden they’d built in industrial South Central Los Angeles. I’d participated in a media panel, discussing misleading marketing, the role of blogging in media, and the challenges writers face. Like needing a salad after too much kugel, it was time for something at least a little lighter. So, I went to hear one of my favorite experts on Jewish food tell stories and make nosh.
Joan Nathan was on stage, multitasking. Busily adjusting the top of a food processor, she was demonstrating how to prepare two different dishes, while overseeing an assistant chopping vegetables and simultaneously talking into a microphone, held by another assistant, about the history of Jewish foods in France.
She hopped fluently from story to story. The history of challah and brioche. Finding a delicious kugel recipe involving pears and goose fat. French Jewish food writers hiding Jewish identities. The arrival of New World ingredients in France. An anecdote about a bar mitzvah. “My daughter’s says I’m not organized,” she confessed. “I’m all over the place. She’s going to be mad at me.”
But it was an all over the place we followed fluently, perhaps because it was so very articulately, charmingly Jewish. Several of us agreed: she reminded us of our mothers, our grandmothers, our friends. Her storytelling shifts made sense; like in a braided challah, the narrative threads connected back together at the end. Her history of Jewish cooking in France – the Jewish origins of foie gras and brioche, the cultural shift to North African Jewish foods like the harissa she’s teaching us to make – showed her incredible scholarship on these subjects, but her speaking style felt so familiarly engaging I’d have been contented to hear her talk about the history of toast.
I’ve enjoyed being at a conference where our ways of interacting and talking are so very Jewish. We reason, we debate, we explore subtle nuance, we make jokes. And it’s not surprising; we’re over 600 Jews passionate about sustainable food, packed into a retreat center on and about December 25th with bellies full of Chinese food from our Erev Christmas meal. Not that we all agree about everything; we are Jews after all. There are passionate vegetarians and fierce advocates for eating pasture-raised, sustainable meat. There are Orthodox and irreligious Jews, East Coasters and West Coasters, infants and senior citizens. We’re a tsimmis of Jewish foodies, and we’re having a thought-provoking blast.

It’s delightfully overwhelming. I can’t remember the last time I was around this many Jews at once, let alone Jews involved in the sustainable food movement. We are educators, students, rabbis, city dwellers, farmers, writers, parents, cooks, gardeners, staff of Jewish organizations, and people conscious about how we eat. And, like Joan Nathan, we are – in our many ways – so very Jewish.
It shows up in the humor, too. It’s not just a Jewish sense of humor, but a Jewish belief that humor can and should be mixed in with serious subjects. In Joan Nathan’s demonstration, someone asked for advice on how to grill eggplant in an apartment with only an electric stove. Joan confessed something like, “I’m going to sound like I’m name dropping, but I have an electric grill Wolfgang Puck gave me.” The audience member called back, “I’ll ask him for one!” We all cracked up.
Joan was making a vegetarian eggplant caviar from France, and talking about how traditional French Jewish foods are getting lost in the changing demographics of France, as North African Jews immigrate and bring with them delicious dishes and spices. How this shift and the loss of older Jewish French foods is abetted by a history of Jewish assimilation and closeted identity, the same force that has kept throngs of Jewish food writers from identifying openly as Jewish. Back in the conference social hall, I pull out my laptop and Google a few French terms: recette Juive (Jewish recipe) and nourriture Juive (Jewish food) and the results jibe with what Joan said; the top hits are nearly all North African.

Later, Rabbi Steve Greenberg points out that Jews are not so much one ethnic population tied only to the land of Israel, but more a multi-cultural, multi-racial family tied to different soil around the globe. This, he points out, is highlighted by the fact that we have so many different definitions of Jewish food.
And really, that’s the point; we’re meant to be living where we are, focused on the land where we live, eating and enjoying what’s local. We’re meant to eat with intention, to remember the stories behind our food and build new ones. When she spoke of food history and recipes, Joan Nathan emphasized, “It’s the stories that bind us to who we are, and it’s really sadly missing in America.”
Jewish culture stresses the importance of remembering stories, so that we don’t forget who we are, what we eat or why. This tradition of storytelling is valuable to the Jewish food movement. Storytelling helps us remember who grew our food, how a recipe changed, or what food traditions we’ve lost and might like to regain.
Our families and food traditions and cultures and choices may change, as we learn more about nutrition and sustainability, move from place to place, or try new foods. Within the Jewish community and even within the Jewish food movement, we’ll continue to debate things like how to balance kashruth and sustainability and what sustainability really means.
I’m just glad we’re having these conversations. I’m also glad we’re doing practical work. From farms to educational programs, from books and essays and blogs to CSAs in synagogues and in communities dealing with hunger, there’s a diverse amount of work going on, of which we should be proud. To the tsimmis that is the Jewish food movement: l’chaim.