Louis Finkelman remembers the times he helped his grandpa with horseradish.
Grandma constructed a feast for family and guests in the little kitchen in the middle of their apartment. Grandpa prepared two items: the charoset and the horseradish. Since he worked on the horseradish, he worked beside an open window in the bedroom at the end of a long corridor, far from the rest of the apartment. We grandchildren could help Grandpa.
The charoset was simple: We took turns using an old-fashioned grater (in Yiddish, rebeisen or rub iron) to turn a couple of apples into raw applesauce and chopping some walnuts. Grandpa would mix the walnuts and applesauce, add generous amounts of cinnamon and some sweet red wine.
The horseradish was more of a production. Grandpa had picked a good horseradish root — he knew about fruits and vegetables — years ago he had sold them from a pushcart until he bought his own fruit store. He peeled the horseradish, and then we took turns grating it into the bowl. No one could take too long a turn before the aroma made our eyes tear, and we had to leave, and the next child had a turn.
Eventually, when he had enough grated horseradish in the bowl, Grandpa squeezed lemons one after another with a little glass juicer. Then Grandpa would mix lemon juice, sugar and maybe water into the horseradish, releasing torrents of fresh aroma. Children could get sent to the kitchen to bring more lemons or sugar until Grandpa was satisfied with the end product, and we could taste it.
Sometimes it needed a bit more lemon juice, sometimes a bit more sugar. When he was satisfied with the result, Grandpa let us have one more taste. Through our tears, we would agree with Grandpa that the horseradish was good this year.
Half the horseradish went into one bowl for the people who prefer white horseradish. We got to grate a beet into the horseradish in the other bowl for red horseradish, for the people who prefer the more delicate red horseradish. Grating the beet was much less dramatic.
Now I have a couple of horseradish plants growing in the Southfield clay in my backyard. In the fall, the plants display impressive three-foot tall leaves and delicate white flowers. Now, at the beginning of spring, the leaves are bleached ivory color and flat on the ground. I plan to dig up a bucketful of roots, wash them peel them, and put them through the grater before Passover, just like Grandpa used to do.
One year, I tried to use a food processor. The horseradish came out good, but the food processor never recovered.
When I prepare for the seder and remember Grandpa, I expect to have a good cry.
Additional Reading:
According to the Mishnah (Pesahim 2:6), we use the leaves and stalks but not the root for maror, the bitter herb at the seder; we use fresh or dried herbs, but not pickled or cooked. So many families use herbs mentioned in the Mishnah: lettuce (an old variety such as Romaine), endive, escarole or perhaps dandelion. They use the fiery horseradish with gefilte fish, beef and boiled potatoes.
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Passover Essay: Love Was Key Ingredient of Grandpa's Horseradish — Detroit Jewish News - The Jewish News
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