Bitter Herbs

It was a memorable view, out of my old bedroom window. I can picture it now, decades later, like a watercolour imprinted across my mind.

Behind the back fence, a hill climbed precipitously. It was a semi-wild space, basically scrubland, with trees and shrubs that doubled up as secret dens and climbing frames for curious limbs and bright-eyed explorers.

To the right, in the distance, loomed the cooling towers of Agecroft power station: a column of solemn sentinels belching white plumes of smoke that slowly rose and melded into clouds, before drifting beyond the window frame. I still remember how mysterious and brooding those chimneys seemed.

In the afternoon before the Passover seder, in anticipation of the long night of storytelling, singing and food, my family would always take a rest. It wasn’t a formal tradition, just what my family did. But what child likes to rest? I didn’t want to rest. So boring! Passover seder was far too exciting for that.

Still, I would try and lie quietly on my bed, and stare out the window, contemplating the hill outside: the dens to be built, the traps to lay for would-be invaders. Or imagine the smoke stacks as mighty stone giants, marauding the earth. Eventually though, my patience would wane, and I’d tiptoe downstairs – to the kitchen, where everything happened.

*

My mother’s seder preparation was nothing less than meticulous, involving many days, if not weeks, of planning.

Over the counter would stretch an impossibly long convoy of crockery and pre-prepared food: rows of empty wine glasses in the vanguard, ready for a night of celebratory replenishment (four times to be precise, as is the custom); just behind, bowls of hard-boiled eggs sitting in their pools of saline so thick, that the eggs would practically float on top; then the sacred triad of matzah crackers, snugly ensconced inside a pouch that’s embroidered in turquoise and gold; and finally the seder-plate, the ceramic centre-piece bearing the festive constellation of symbolic foods:

The lamb shank for the Passover sacrifice.

Saltwater for the tears of slavery.

The charoseth paste of apple, nut, and cinnamon – mortar to remind us of the Israelites’ hard labour.

The roasted egg for rebirth and new life.

Parsley for hope and the spring.

And lastly, the grated horseradish: a mound of wispy white flakes that mirrored the nearby Pennines, whose snowy crests hung under granite Lancastrian skies. Bitter herbs for the bitterness of slavery. And even if horseradish was actually neither herb nor bitter, those fiery shards were everything to me.

*

Growing up, our bitter herbs had one source, and one source alone: my late, great Auntie Ruth. She was the bringer of tubers, her majesty of horseradish, forever synonymous with this vegetable, even long after her death.

In my earliest years, she’d serve her grated horseradish at her own seder. In my middle childhood, after her husband died, we’d go to one of her sons, where her horseradish would grace the seder night, along with her warm, vivacious, laughter. In my older childhood, we’d celebrate seder at home, and even if Auntie Ruth wasn’t there, she’d always drop a tub of horseradish round ours the day before – her presence was keenly felt.

Just to be clear: grated horseradish was not some time-honoured family recipe, honed over generations. It did not involve a complex process of preparation, where various ingredients were skillfully combined, and then magically transformed into some exceptional dish. It was just a vegetable, grated.

But oh, what a vegetable! Enigmatic, and almost alien-like to a child: gnarled and wizened on the outside, but on grating, its flakes would fall like white hot embers, at which point its true nature was unleashed – a pearly dragon of a tuber.

The tupperware ought to have been labelled with a chemical hazard sign, like you see on household detergents and bleaches – for were the lid to be opened inadvertently, that pungent aroma would seep out like some sort of toxic genie, infecting the whole house before Passover had even begun.

For a child whose day-to-day existence generally involved no horseradish, having this strange vegetable at home, one that caused visceral pain to one’s nostrils, was both disconcerting and riveting.

Was it even food?.. Of course, it would demand being physically eaten, swallowed, ingested. But growing up, it was solely associated with Passover: it had function, it had purpose. It wasn’t there for sustenance, enjoyment, or any of the usual reasons one consumed food. As a child, I’d go as far as to say I was downright scared of it, albeit in that exhilarating way one is of rollercoasters or Bonfire night sparklers. It certainly lent an edge as Passover approached.

*

Eventually seder night would arrive, and I’d sit down in anticipation – my dad to the right, mum to the left – and eagerly await the opening verse: “Why is this night different from all the other nights?…“

Through all the subsequent songs and stories, dipping of foods, and sipping of wine (or grape juice for us kids), I’d relish every step, every ritual. And, at the same time, keep a cautious eye on that horseradish, like a gazelle might a lion.

Eventually, about two hours in, the ancient declaration would be recited – “This bitter herb that we eat, for what reason?” – my ears would suddenly prick up, and the horseradish be held aloft; everyone pointing in reverence.

Soon after – and anyone who has attended a seder will attest to this – there’s a rather chaotic, almost comedic, passage where each and everyone has their opinion on how the horseradish should be eaten. Should it be the size of an olive, or an egg? On a piece of matzah, or sandwiched between two? Dipped in the charoset, or parsley, or onion… or just eaten as pure and solitary as the Passover moon?

Each view was not an island. Each reflected an accumulative history of seders, absorbing traditions from families and communities, customs handed down from generation to generation, all the way back to the old country, In so doing, a sense of weight hung over the proceedings, as if whatever happened at that very moment could yet be cemented in perpetuity.

For us children, the inevitable back-and-forthing, the ‘should we do it this way or that?‘, and other shenanigans, would be quite excruciating. It just delayed the inevitable. And sure enough, after all the bitter herb broigus, the head of the seder would eventually call time, and move us all on.

As everyone recited the blessing and took their mouthful, compliments would be paid to Auntie Ruth. Then, once the heat and flavour had been properly savoured (or at least endured), some would commentate on it as though it were a fine wine, weighing up its merits against other past vintages of horseradish – “cor, such a hot one this year!“

In the meantime, us children would hold back, exchanging nervous glances, waiting to see who dared go first. But at some point we all had to face our tuberous nemesis.

The more timid amongst us would tentatively select a single flake, screw up their face, and try to force it down, pitting it against all of one’s primal instincts. The more gung-ho, meanwhile, would boldly scoop up a small mound.. then on second thoughts, slide most of it discreetly back onto the plate. This horseradish, it demanded respect.

*

As my childhood years passed, I’d discover that, after all the palaver, I actually quite liked horseradish. Especially when eaten with matzah and charoseth – the customary ‘Hillel sandwich’ – the sweet, cinnamon-laced, paste mellowing the astringent heat.

Inevitably, something was lost at that point. The herbs were meant to hurt. They were meant to remind us of slavery, of our ancestors being cruelly subjugated – a foundation narrative to connect us with our roots, and give value to our current freedom. More progressive seders would reflect more deeply on all the slavery and injustice still prevalent in the world, showing solidarity to all those afflicted, however one can.

Even though a teenage mind, and especially an adult one, can conceive all these things, reflect on the theological and cultural issues, make wider generalisations and extrapolations, layer on all sorts of meanings and histories – there is something about the bare emotional experience of horseradish that really only a young child knows.

The feel in the mouth. The raw pain in the gullet. The wincing of the eyes. The bitterness of the bitter herbs.

But I was lucky not to know the much greater pain: the pain of all the suffering and inequality out there in the world. For my childhood was filled with love and security. And bitterness, like horseradish, was largely an outsider.

*

bitter herbs

For another take on Passover, and why my family commemorate the end of the festival with babka, feel free to read another festive post: Passover, Food and Memory. And also a piece about our much loved, and much missed, Auntie Ruth: Apples and Honey on Rosh Hashanah.

Meanwhile, I recently enjoyed this article in The New York Times by Kayla Stewart – Blackness Deserves a Seat At The Seder – on what Passover means to Black American Jews, and how the festival can celebrate the intersection of Jewish and Black identities and histories. Not least around food – I loved the sound of Michael Twitty’s suya spiced chicken soup & matzo-meal fried chicken too, and can’t wait for his upcoming book ‘Kosher Soul’.

I’d never seen grated horseradish used as an actual ingredient before, at least not in its raw state, without being processed as part of a sauce. I was therefore quite amazed to find it – liberally sprinkled – in the iconic dish of London restaurant, Quo Vadis: smoked eel sandwich. Indeed, it was the prompt for me to write this piece.

Finally, because of the pandemic, and as for many people around the world, this Passover is the first in three years that I’ll be spending with my parents and sister’s family. So to all those celebrating, wishing you a Chag Sameach and a Happy Pesach!

May your charoseth be sweet, and bitter herbs bitter (but not too bitter!)…

bitter herbs