Israel is a young country, yet its cuisine carries with it a long history of peoples, migrations, and memories. Born from the meeting of immigrants from every corner of the world and the local Arab Palestinian cuisine, which has had a profound and inseparable influence on Israeli food. Each wave of immigration carried with it generations of memory—Shabbat tables, family traditions, and the tastes of home: Moroccan, Sephardic, Russian, Yemeni, Ethiopian, Ashkenazi, Persian, Iraqi, and many other Jewish communities.
At first glance, Israeli cuisine may appear to be nothing more than a collection of different culinary traditions. There is no single defining line, no unified heritage.
Yet markets, homes, kitchens, and restaurants have collectively shaped something new. Traditions began to intertwine, ingredients were reimagined, and flavors evolved. It is precisely this coexistence—dish alongside dish—that defines Israeli cuisine.
My Family Kitchen
I was born into a home where flavors blended naturally: an Egyptian father, a Turkish-Bulgarian mother, and a grandmother whose kitchen was an entire school of love. The kitchen was the heart of our home. In many cultures, hospitality and food are a language of love—when a guest enters the house, the first thing offered is something to eat or drink. Even when the answer is no, the cupboards are opened anyway.
As a young child, I remember running between my mother’s legs while the stovetop was crowded with five bubbling pots, the oven was working overtime, and my father stood outside by the grill. It was a distinctly Israeli rhythm: fast, messy, loud, and full of life.
I used to imitate my mother, and the first rule of entering the kitchen was clear—you place a towel over your shoulder.
In our family, we describe our cooking style as “shchuna”—literally, “neighborhood cooking.” We don’t measure. We cook by instinct, invent as we go, accept mistakes, and try new ideas. Nothing is precise or professional, yet the result is always the most meaningful flavor of all: the taste of home.
When I helped my mother cook and we reached the spice stage, we would open an entire drawer filled with colors, aromas, and textures. She would tell me what to add. I would ask how much.
“Start—I’ll stop you,” she’d say.
“Enough?”
“No. A little more.”
Bold flavors, strong colors, and intense aromas—this is the Middle Eastern cooking I grew up with.
As a child, I remember extraordinary creativity in the kitchen. My earliest memory of abundance comes from making an omelet as a young girl. I added everything I saw in the refrigerator—zucchini, potatoes, chicken, peppers. Everything went into the pan.
My family laughed, but I loved it. To this day, I live by a simple rule: if it all mixes in the stomach, it can mix in the dish.
Walking down the street on a Friday, as households prepare for Shabbat, you are surrounded by layers of aroma drifting from every home—fried schnitzels from one, barbecue from another, chraime fish from one kitchen, baked goods from the next.
Every table carries its own color, shaped by long histories, family journeys, and the influence of other cultures. At a single Israeli Shabbat table, Persian rice may sit beside Moroccan fish, Bukharan soup next to focaccia, and open salads representing countless traditions.
An Invitation to the Table
Israeli cuisine lives not in definition, but in experience.
This February, I invite you to experience it firsthand at an Israeli cooking workshop in collaboration with Café Nóva. Together, we will prepare a full meal—appetizers, a main course, and salads—and conclude with a communal table, sharing everything we’ve created.
For more details, please follow the announcement on the Federation’s website, www.jewishnashville.org
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