My mother-in-law passed away in June 2008, and when she did, we were bereft. The loss of a matriarch—a woman who had protected and fought for her Israeli homeland, a widow who had nursed her husband through years of a serious illness, a devoted mother to three sons, a loving grandmother to several grandchildren, a hard worker, a clever thinker, and a creative soul—signifies the loss of so much more.
An old-world matriarch is the one who tends to run the household, pay the bills, maintain order, and put culinary and baking skills to work, perfecting recipes to meet challenging taste buds of family members. Oftentimes, these recipes are trial-and-error, modified continuously, but memorized and not written down… and sadly, they are often lost with the death of that matriarch.
My mother-in-law, Liora, lovingly and consistently prepared meals and trademark dishes for family and friends. She relied on recipes that she had made repeatedly, which were successful and appreciated. Soups, rice dishes, Mediterranean salads, handmade bourekas, sweet cookies and cakes, fish dishes… the list is endless.
By the time, she was diagnosed with a serious illness and passed away six months later, it was too late for her to share her personal recipes; it was too late for me to ask her to show me how she made her own farmer’s cheese; it was too late for me to sit beside her and together work with delicate filo dough—that she made from scratch—to make spinach bourekas; it was too late to ask her how her own mother prepared food for her large family… It was simply too late.
Our taste buds were already missing her even though she was still here physically. And when she did leave this world that June, our hearts joined those taste buds in missing her…
But my husband discovered a beautiful way of remembering his mother to miss her just a little bit less.
In our first home, we had a garden with several fruit trees, among them a quince tree. Not everyone is familiar with a quince fruit; it is a bright yellow, hard fruit that slightly resembles a pear. The fruit has a strong smell, slightly astringent in its raw state, but when cooked, it adds flavor and often, color, as the yellow flesh takes on a pinkish hue.
My mother-in-law got very excited to know we had such a tree, and we waited several years for it to bear fruit. When it finally did, offering up hearty quinces, we gave them to her. She made jam with it, saving a jar for herself and giving us one, too. My husband says that she happily thrust the jar of quince jam into his hands and said, “Here, for you.”
We labeled the jar and put it in our freezer. That batch of quince jam was made in October 2002, a few short years before her life—and ultimately ours, too—changed. In October 2002, she took all the necessary steps to produce a batch of jam and put it in a jar for us. A container of quince jam we have not yet thrown away…
Even when we moved to a new house in 2003, leaving behind the garden of fruit trees, leaving behind that quince tree, we took the quince jam with us to place in our new home’s freezer. We considered this made-with-love jam to be a delicacy, and thus it was to be relished, with only a tiny teaspoon to be removed each time—a small “taste” —and put back in its safe place.
Once a year, usually around the Jewish New Year, when we Jews are supposed to eat a new fruit and make a Shehechiyanu blessing—expressing our gratitude to God for allowing us to experience a new or special occasion, thanking G-d for letting us reach this moment—my husband reaches into that freezer to remove the container of quince jam. It is always a special occasion for him when he does so. He removes a small spoonful and warms it up, savoring it on his tongue after it has thawed. The taste of the quince jam, frozen for all these years, reminds him of the love and effort his mother put into making it, reminds him of the excitement his mother displayed upon learning we had a quince tree, and of her elation years later seeing the fruit that it bore and being able to use it. It reminds him that the sweetness of the jam isn’t lost on him—it took the right ingredients, the right amount of time, and the right person to produce it.
Not only my husband, but our family, are reminded that even though his mother passed away seventeen years ago, she left behind all types of tangible and intangible gifts that we can reach for or think about when we are really missing her. Even a glass jar of quince jam.
