Rise

 As the seasons shift and the trees put on their flaming coats, it feels like a new start. Although autumn marks the slow march towards winter, towards death and hibernation and bare branches, to me, it has always felt like a beginning. New notebooks and pens, apples and honey, the chance to be a different person this year than you were before. And yet, as the chill creeps in around the windows I also find myself turning to the same routines and rituals I always perform, regardless of season, marked by the changing produce and spices but connected by a thread of recipes, tradition, and holidays to seasons and years past.

I stand in front of the stove, my legs still indented from the compression socks I hastily pulled off as soon as I was through the door, as oil shimmers in the pan. I scrape in the onions. They hiss like a cat’s warning before quieting to a sizzle. The aroma of garlic, a pungency softened to tantalizing wisps, floats through the apartment. I add the cherry tomatoes, watching until their skins split and they spill their juices into the pan. The pasta water boils next to me, a roiling sea contained. I feel my own emotions swirl, the tears from cutting onions dried up and a bubble of joy rising in my chest. I spoon in sticky white miso, licking the spoon and squeezing my eyes at the punch of salt.

I feel more alive in this moment than I did all day. Even amidst the relentless bustle of the hospital corridors and the palpably frantic dance of patient care, it is in the kitchen that I find vitality. As I chop and stir, the familiar rhythm becomes an immersive sanctuary. Sometimes, the edges blur and I become a part of the kitchen, using my hands to flip golden roasted eggplant pulled straight from the oven, somehow knowing exactly when to check a pot to catch it before it boils over.

My thoughts often turn to the profound significance of food. It is woven into the individual, familial, communal, and global threads of our life tapestries. Although in medicine we often focus on food as a dichotomy or a treatment, food is not just molecules for the complex chemical reactions that make up our bodies but also is a connector, a comforter, and a catalyst for rejuvenation, healing, and growth in more ways than just the physical.

My hands sink deep into the dough, feeling the flour, water, and yeast come alive (literally) under my hands as I knead. Each time I make challah I think of (in no particular order):

• …the summer of 2017. Balmy Friday nights filled with Bud Light Strawberritas and raucous laughter. Each one culminating in still-warm chocolate chip challah shoved into our mouths in drunken bliss. None of them had ever made challah before, but by the end of the summer even those who had never played with their friends’ hair at sleepovers were able to do a passable braid. It always felt bittersweet, like an alternate universe Shabbat dinner. I was surrounded by friends who had never grown up with this bread but were willing to bake it with me, yet there was always a twinge of otherness that couldn’t be kneaded away. 

• …the challah French toast my father made when he was home for the weekend. Often gone for what felt like weeks at a time, the weekend breakfasts of omelets or French toast were a special treat. I would drown each slice in a puddle of maple syrup until each bite was like crème brûlée, a crisp outer layer giving way to oozing burnt sugar. I’ve tried to make his French toast many times since leaving home, but it’s never quite the same. Partly because my dad never uses a recipe and is frustratingly blasé about ingredient approximations. (And because I’m too impatient, but we can pretend that’s not a reason). And also because I’ve learned that food often tastes best in memory form.

• … the photos of the Shabbat candles my step-mother sends most weeks, a flame for each of us set in gleaming silver candlesticks. She often accompanies the photo with a detailed report of how the challah came out that week, which seeds she used (the same every time), and what could have been better. Sometimes she solicits my opinion, asking why I think the challah cracked open, revealing its soft white insides to the world prematurely. I always blame the rise and the weather, easy targets given their fickle natures.

• … all the challot made by Jews who came before me. The challot of neighbors, baking together in one communal oven, shaped into fish and flowers and braids so each family can tell which one was theirs. The challot before they were called by that name, who had pieces were ripped from them and thrown into the fire at the temple as offering. The challot that don’t look like the braided bread I make but rather are stuffed with seeds and dried fruit, laced with saffron or orange water or za’atar, or baked overnight into a thousand rich layers.

• … and all the challot that Jews are making on the same day as me, shattered across the world. Separated by distance, language, time zone, community, and religiosity. Yet our hands touch flour and water just the same, brought together by the humblest ingredients combining to form a millennium of shared experiences.

For me, cooking has always involved a deep exploration of my own roots, delving into the culinary traditions and ingredients of not just my childhood but also my larger cultural and geographic ties. It is more than a sequence of steps, but also an art that weaves together the fragments of my identity, connecting me to the stories of those who came before me and those who cook alongside me. I often wonder what experiences my challah will touch in 5 years from now, 10, 50. Will my co-residents be sitting around the Shabbat table with me in a few years, kvetching about our hours and laughing about the horrors of intern year as the wind howls outside and we use the challah to scoop up a leek and wild rice stew? Will I one day have children who laugh uproariously as we tear into the bread and try to sneak a second piece before finishing their broccoli? Will I belong to a temple where families come together to bake challot and make endless casseroles for a community member in the hospital? Or will I build my own community out of the mishmash of friends and co-workers and family that I accumulate along the way? Will I be baking my challah at sea-level or high-altitude? In the U.S. or abroad? There are infinite possible future strands that can unspool from the end of the same braid.

Amidst this symphony of fragrances and flavors, I am immersed in a timeless narrative. Each push and pull of dough or stir of sauce is a testament to the resilience of tradition and the search for joy in a year where there is never enough time. On the days I can’t cook, when writing notes and doing practice questions and reviewing surgical steps take over, I feel even more adrift in the vast expanse of school. In a way, it feels like a year of endless cafeteria food. Sure, you can spice things up with some hot sauce, but it’s a lot of the same. Go to the team room, smile as you say good morning, ask how their night was, try to not lose the smile as they start complaining about whatever patient they had to deal with, try and furiously scribble down sign-out because you still don’t know how to print the right sheet, speed walk to see the patients and waste 5 minutes deciding if you really need to wake them up, wake them up, listen to their heart and lungs and hope that you’re not missing something obvious, run upstairs, chug coffee, somehow it’s already rounds, stand, walk to a different room, stand, walk, stand, lean against a wall surreptitiously as your back screams, walk, stand, walk, stand, walk, sit down (finally), start notes, put in orders, edit notes, run down to tell the patient, run up to get the resident to sign the order, message the nurse, run down to make sure the nurse saw the message, run up to finish your notes, go home, rinse and repeat. A lot of grinning and bearing it to make it to the feast you’ve been promised, just over the horizon.

And yet, with the aroma of simmering tomatoes and fresh bread enveloping me, I am reminded of food’s grounding properties. It is a potent conductor, harmonizing elements across time (past, present, and future) and place (here, home, far) in a way that centers me in the present. And it is also a steadfast companion that provides respite and renewal, for in each carefully crafted morsel lies the essence of revival—a reminder of the enduring power of food to nourish, heal, and bind us to the tapestry of our shared human experience.