A writer attended the Forbidden Courses program, or what he describes as “a sort of anti-woke summer camp,” at the recently created University of Austin. Here, he shares what he learned, which includes the fact that UATX isn’t terribly interested in learning at all. Thank you for your service, Noah Rawlings:
Peter [Boghossian, UATX founder] springs to the center of the room. The air pressure changes. A buzz, a hum, a current about us. He brims with a frenzied energy. Something is happening. He is going to give us a taste of what’s to come, he says. This is the kind of intellectual activity we’re going to experience at UATX. We’re going to grapple with big issues. We’re going to be daring, fearless, undaunted. We’re going, he says, to do something called “Street Epistemology.”
What is Street Epistemology? He’ll demonstrate. It’s one of two things he does, the other being jiu-jitsu. “I don’t have a life,” he says. “I talk to strangers and I wrestle strangers.” But before we can do Street Epistemology, Peter needs to think of some questions.
He turns his back to the audience, hunches slightly and strides, stroking his chin. He is Rodin’s thinker set in manic motion; he is a relentless logician in his study at midnight; he is a frantically philosophical gremlin … —BAM! He wheels around and stalks forward and slings his index finger out toward a student, demands of him whether climate change is real?! and how certain is he?! and why?!—BOP! He points at another student, asks whether gender is a social construct, whether trans women are women?! He cites Socrates and The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. He staggers and weaves: as a boxer dances, so Peter lectures. He is the professor you never had; he is a squall of raw intellect; he is Robin Williams in the Dead Poets Society, but ripped. He is putting a gun to the head of your most precious assumptions.
And then it is over. That, we have learned, is Street Epistemology. It is asking the hard questions of another, and not refuting them when you disagree, but continuing to ask “why?” and “how certain are you?” until the temple of their convictions crumbles, and you can help them build a newer, sounder one.
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The rural villages along Brazil’s Purus River have historically been Catholic, such as the settlement of São Miguel. But the grip of the Catholic Church is weakening in the country as a whole, and the residents of these rainforest communities have been converting to more “expressive forms of evangelical Christianity.” In his opening line, Terrence McCoy transports us deep into the Amazon, where this story takes place; we find ourselves on a boat next to a Catholic priest, Father Moisés, who is on his annual trip to the villages in the region. But more and more families have renounced their Catholic faith and begun to follow the new evangelical preacher who lives on the bluff above São Miguel—a man named Pastor Leudo who had been showing them “God in a new way.”
Father Moisés hadn’t met the pastor, nor heard him preach, but his charisma was no secret. Evangelicals said they’d never heard anyone speak of God as he did. Thin and tanned, hands calloused from years of wielding a chain saw, the pastor looked no different from thousands of others struggling to survive along the Purus. But followers said he’d been touched by divine providence. He was rumored to have banished malevolent spirits and cured illnesses. He claimed to be illiterate but somehow read the Bible with fluency. Wherever he went, Catholics renounced their church and followed him.
The unique challenges posed by the rainforest — immense size, wide dispersion of villages, few roads — had exacerbated the church’s shortage of priests. Some communities were going a full year without seeing a member of the clergy. The bishops urged radical change: Grant priestly powers to married men, breaking with the bedrock tenet of clerical celibacy, and increase the reach of the cloth. “We have to change,” pleaded one Amazon bishop, Wilmar Santin.
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Cholent is not a pretty food. A mushy medley of beiges and browns, bulging with bones and dotted through with dull maroon, it scores very few aesthetic points—even among the stews (a homely family, let us admit). Frankly, it kind of looks like a thing thrown up. Mostly this is the fault of the disintegrating barley, humblest of grains, though the beans (kidney) don’t help.
But listen: done well, there are few foods on this Earth more satisfying. Warm, rich, salty, and deeply filling in a way I’ve not encountered elsewhere, a good cholent is ambrosial. What I might call divine.
Schalet, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium!
Also klänge Schiller’s Hochlied,
Hätt’ er Schalet je gekostet.
“Cholent, ray of light immortal!
Cholent, daughter of Elysium!”
So had Schiller’s song resounded,
Had he ever tasted Cholent.1
1 This stanza, and those to follow, are excerpted from Heinrich Heine’s “Prinzessin Sabbat” (1851).
2 Though there are, it should be noted, plenty of Jews who make and seemingly enjoy cholent all year round. In fact, I once had one at a kiddish (kind of like a lunch buffet, only much more Jewish, and often featuring very good alcohol) on a humid, 90-degree day. Wisely, I limited myself to a small sample, really just to be polite to the host; at ambient temperatures above 80 degrees Fahrenheit, cholent has a way of solidifying in the gut, like a bad omen before a big event, or concrete.
A cold-season staple in observant Ashkenazi households,2 cholent is the cornerstone of the second Shabbos meal. In fact, once my older siblings moved out and I was the only child at home, a winter’s lunch at my dad’s would often consist just of challah, cholent, and a little salad for good measure. My dad being my dad and, well, Jewish, he’d make a full crock pot every week even though it was just the two of us; the leftovers he’d freeze and add to the next cholent. Our perpetual stew.
In the morning, before heading off to shul—this back when we both still regularly attended services—he and I would sidle up to the pot and lift the lid, anointing ourselves with the heady, aromatic steam. We called this weekly practice the cholent facial.
3 Our religion can be exacting, you see, and our God is a jealous one. We are a practical people, though—we’ve had to be to survive—and have learned to negotiate the stringencies of law. This is one reason you see so many Jewish attorneys.
Typically Jewish, it began as a loophole.3 Cholent (chulent, tsholnt, sholet, schalet) is a Sabbath stew, customarily prepared for the traditional Saturday lunch; and yet, Jewish Law prohibits cooking on the Sabbath, for it is a day of rest. And cooking, it bears emphasizing, is work. Hence the contradiction.
Ironically, I know of few other foods that can compete with cholent’s effort-to-result ratio. There are no special techniques required, no specific order of operations, no precise measurements (if you are using a measuring cup, you are doing it wrong). Even the usual rules of smart cooking—sear your meat! soak your beans! toast your grains!—flake away like so much stale dogma, leaving the barest slip of a recipe. Watch how easy:
Step one: cut the meat into chunks.
Step two: roughly chop the onions and potatoes (peeled, unpeeled, whatever).
4 Believe it or not, there was a time when the average Jewish household did not own a crock pot. I know, I know—it seems implausible. But there it is. In fact, even the home oven as we know it today is a relatively modern phenomenon. It used to be that only the bakery had the necessary hardware, and so cholent was cooked communally. On Friday afternoons, after the village baker removed the last of the week’s loaves from the oven and swept it clean, Jews would gather with their pots and place them in the heated chamber, which would then be sealed until the following morning to make the most of the residual heat. These days, though, most Jewish cooks I know who prepare cholent even semi-regularly make good use of a slow cooker. Appropriately, the inventor, one Irving Naxon (born Irving Nachumsohn), was inspired by stories his mother told him of her home back in Lithuania, where his grandmother used to make this Sabbath stew called…you guessed it.
Step three: throw the above together with the dry ingredients into a slow cooker, salt generously, cover with water, bring to a simmer on high, then cook on the lowest setting—or, if doing it the old-fashioned way, transfer the pot to a 200-degree oven4—for at least another 12 hours, i.e., overnight. (Longer is better, though, and around 18 to 20 hours seems to be the sweet spot as the flavors continue to develop in relationship.)
That’s it. You don’t even have to stir. In fact, according to Orthodox interpretations of the Law, you’re not even allowed to.
5 Any action so prohibited is known as a melakhah, or melakhot (Yiddish: melachos) in the plural. And boy, are they plural. For though the Bible itself does not much trouble itself with all the specifics, the Talmud—which contains an entire eponymous tractate devoted to elucidating the obligations and restrictions of Shabbat, featuring the usual Talmudic flair for the digressive and the exhaustive—lists 39 categories of labor that are forbidden. These are called, inventively, the 39 Melakhot, and even a cursory examination of them is way beyond the scope of this piece (you’re welcome).
The shalt nots of the Sabbath derive from a very particular understanding of what constitutes work. To wit: any kind of action performed as part of the construction and service of the Mishkan, or Biblical Tabernacle, is forbidden on the Sabbath.5 And since kindling a fire and baking the ritual showbreads was part of that service, we’re to refrain from doing so on our day of rest.
“Ahh,” you may now be wondering (though really it’s more of an uuhh, from the bottom of the throat rather than the roof of your mouth), “but that’s baking. What about roasting, or boiling, or poaching, or braising? And what if it’s not bread we want to cook, but, say, a stew?”
In which case I say to you, “Yes, yes, very good! That’s exactly the right idea!” But, no. None of it’s allowed.
6 I’ve noticed a disturbing phenomenon among today’s wealthier Jews of using steak in their cholent. I assume they think the more expensive cuts will yield a better result, though I suspect it’s also another of those status symbol things. Regardless, it’s misguided. Tender steaks turn dry and stringy; the long cooking time of cholent is best suited to tougher cuts with more connective tissue. Flanken, or cross-cut short ribs, is traditional for a reason (also, historically it was cheaper).
I’ve been eating cholent my whole life, probably since before I could quite handle solid food, and I have tried, at this point in my life, dozens of different iterations. Without much exaggeration, maybe even a hundred. Most of them are underwhelming—more often than not there’s not enough salt, and folks frequently spring for the wrong cut of beef.6 Some people skimp on the barley or else add too much, many leave out the marrow, and a few forego the meat entirely. (Bless all vegan hearts, but cholent sings of flesh and bone.) I’ve even witnessed otherwise sensible people use beans from a can.
The worst, though, are the Embellishers, the culinary miscreants who add ketchup, or barbecue sauce, or, god forbid, frankfurters. Verily I say unto you: thou shalt not put hot dogs into thy Sabbath stew. Or, as my dad likes to advise, “KISS.” Keep it simple, stupid.
I’ve noticed cholent to be a frequent favorite among Jewish dads. Or a particular subset of them, I should more closely observe, as the predilection seems to predominate on the religious side of the spectrum, especially—though by no means exclusively—among the Orthodox. Mine own Tati, for one.
My dad loves cholent so much that, back when I was living at home and alternating weekends between my parents, he used to go on (and on) about this idea he had for a “cholent spray,” something like a savory Febreze for Jews who may have grown up eating it regularly but, after their observance of the Sabbath lapsed and its trappings vanished from their lives, now missed the reassuring warmth of its magical aroma.
We both thought this was brilliant, of course. Also, maybe, a little bit depressing. How tragic, to have known the glory of cholent and lost it.
Traditional Judaism’s strength, I think, lies in its intergenerational vigor. Or, as my Zeide would say, its commitment to maintaining the integrity of the Chain. Even, when it comes to it (as it has, time and again), on pain of death.
This commitment is especially salient among the Orthodox branches, which, for all their issues, have seen their numbers grow even as the Conservative and Reform congregations have declined. Yes, says the thinking in which I was raised, of course it is tempting to pick and choose—but look how slippery the slope. Following the wisdom of our ancestors has kept us true to who we are, has kept us alive as a people for 2,500 years while our enemies, far larger and stronger, are relegated to the history books. In the face of this history, who are we to think we know what’s best? Or, as my favorite rabbi repeatedly told me in high school (sensing, perhaps, where I was headed): “DuBow, you’re not nearly as smart as you think you are.”
Individual autonomy is not the highest value, this way of thinking cautions. Personal choice, so devoutly worshiped in our society, may not be the final locus of freedom after all. Tradition keeps our lives grounded, keeps us balanced in an otherwise shaky world. Hence the famous Fiddler song.
This reminds me of an anecdote I once heard,7 a sort-of joke that hits a bit too close to home, as Jewish-flavored jokes tend to do. It goes like this: Daniel Bell, a 20th-century sociologist and Harvard professor, was a teenage Marxist living in poverty on the Lower East Side. He was standing atop a fruit crate and handing out pamphlets one Friday afternoon when the community rabbi passed by and recognized him.
7 From Professor Mark Lilla of Columbia University, who recounted this story in what I guess, judging from the present attempt, was for me a seminal seminar on Michel de Montaigne’s brilliant Essays, back in the spring of 2018. The word “essay,” it bears repeating, comes from the Middle French root: “to try.”
“Doniyel,” the rabbi said, “what are you doing here? It’s late, you’ve got to go get ready for Shabbos.” Daniel leaned down and, full of conviction, responded: “Rabbi, I have to be honest with you. I don’t believe in God.”
“Feh,” the rabbi said, waving his hand dismissively (here I imagine my Surie Bube’s signature gesture). “Listen, Doineleh. You believe in God, you don’t believe in God, that’s your business. But Shabbos? That’s God’s business!”
8 Perhaps I should add that the stakes here are high. Theoretically a matter of life and death, in fact. As it is written in the immediately preceding verse: “On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a sabbath of complete rest, holy to יהוה; whoever does any work on it shall be put to death.” (Exodus 35:2). If you don’t yet see the irony, you will.
9 Essentially, by “cooking,” the Talmud means the beneficial manipulation of food via the application of heat, as opposed to, say, the use of citrus to “cook” fish for a ceviche, or chopping vegetables for a salad. And in case you were worried that we were getting lax, don’t fret: non-enthalpic transformations have their own associated issues. Squeezing citrus fruits for their juice, for instance, is problematic under a different, unrelated melakhah (דש), and we all know how easily chopping can edge into grinding (טוחן).
So, here’s the problem: we are supposed to rejoice in our rest and celebrate the Sabbath day, and cold leftovers and raw vegetables are not exactly festive fare. Cue the hermeneutic brilliance of cholent. For, while the Torah specifically prohibits burning a fire on the Sabbath (Exodus 35:3),8 the particular binyan (verb form) of the operative word—תְבַעֲר֣וּ, which comes from the root ב.ע.ר or “burn”—is understood in this instance to be causative/intensive rather than stative. I.e., it is the act of kindling a fire which is prohibited; a fire already burning is fine, so long as it is not stoked. So, says the Talmud, if the fire was started before Shabbat began, one can continue to derive benefit from it even once the Sabbath commences. Though, regardless of the fire’s provenance, there is still the separate issue of cooking on the Sabbath. Which, predictably, is its own ontological rigamarole.9
10 More common in Yeshivish circles (at least in my experience), this tradition mainly just involves gathering late Thursday night to learn Torah and eat cholent.
Yes, I’ve eaten my fair share of the stew. Cholent for Shabbos lunch at home or at a friend, cholent at some event-inspired, pre-lunch kiddush in shul; hell, I’ve even known from the rarer Thursday night mishmar cholent.10 And I’ve made plenty of my own, too. It was an easy thing to help with at home and, in college, proved a sure crowd-pleaser at our vibrant community’s raucous, dorm-hosted Shabbat meals. Everybody loves cholent, even those who don’t, and a slow-cooker-full could easily feed 12 hungry undergrads without breaking the bank. Plus, it comes together in a flash, perfect for those hectic winter Fridays when darkness falls at four and us all tipsy with Pre-Shabbat Ruach by midafternoon.11
11 Or PSR, for those in the know. Ruach literally translates to “wind” though is also understood to mean “spirit.” As in “the Spirit of Elohim hovered on the surface of the deep” (Genesis 1:2). Now think, again, of that cholent-charged steam.
You’re supposed to put the stew up earlier in the day, by the way, so that by the time Shabbos comes around it’s technically edible (this a part of the loopholing). But Fridays fly, and I must admit that I rarely remember to get it going more than an hour or so in advance. In fact, during my senior year, I once commenced preparation five minutes before sundown and finished right at the proverbial buzzer. Mea culpa.
12 Broadly speaking, Jews divide the holy texts into two main categories. The תורה שבכתב, or Written Torah, consists most centrally of the Five Books of Moses or the Pentateuch (what we generally mean when referring to the “Torah” colloquially), but also refers to the entire 24-book corpus of the Tanach, or Hebrew Bible. The collection of conversations, anecdotes, commentaries, and teachings emerging from interpretation of the Torah that are recorded in the Talmud and elsewhere comprise the second category: the תורה שבעל פה, or Oral Torah (so called because, prior to the Destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, these teachings were transmitted orally). Rabbinic Judaism, supposedly descended from the Pharisee sect, holds that the Oral Torah has been passed down from generation to generation from the earliest days of our peoplehood and is, as such, sacred and authoritative (to varying extents); Orthodox tradition goes one step further, and maintains that these teachings were literally given from God to Moses in Mount Sinai. Hence the next stanza in Old Heinrich’s poem.
13 The other being the much maligned gefilte fish, for reasons related to pesky fishbones and the separate melakhah of בורר, or “sorting.” To be fair, the description of this venerable delicacy—a poached loaf of fish forcemeat—is not particularly appetizing. And, I must admit, I had my own phobia of it, too, at least until I was nine or 10, when my dad told me that eating gefilte fish is “character building.” I’ve been eating it with relish (or, rather, prepared horseradish) ever since.
The characteristically Talmudic reading of the law that permits our Sabbath stew is, I might note, rather contentious. Or it was, rather, about 2,000 years ago, when the Pharisees were going at it with their aristocratic rivals, the Sadducees, over the authority of the Oral Torah.12
I have thus heard it said—from my sister, who heard it from Rebbetzin Auman of Brooklyn, NY—that cholent is not just a culturally Jewish food, but one of two “halakhically Jewish” foods.13 That is to say, it emerges directly from an interpretation of Jewish Law, rather than mere custom. In this understanding of cholent’s etiology, the Pharisees began to make their Sabbath stews davka as a tangible manifestation of their politico-religious stance, a gastronomic avatar of their ideology, a culinary “Oh, yeah? Just watch me!”
Schalet ist die Himmelspeise,
Die der liebe Herrgott selber
Einst den Moses kochen lehrte
Auf dem Berge Sinai,
For this cholent is the very
Food of heaven, which, on Sinai,
God Himself instructed Moses
In the secret of preparing,
Suffice it to say, the Pharisees won out. Or survived, which is effectively the same thing.14
14 While the Sadducees vanished soon after the Temple was destroyed, and modern Jewry is dominated by the Rabbinic tradition (itself a tapestry of various movements and a multitude of ethno-cultural branches), I should acknowledge that there are still groups of Jews who, to this day, do not recognize the authority of the Oral Torah, most notably the Karaites and the Haymanot.
15 I should note that my mother, upon reading an early draft of this essay, remarked that Dad actually got the recipe from her. Which, fraught as that feels with the inevitable fallout of divorce, I will not touch, only acknowledge.
My dad’s is still the best I’ve had, and I say that for reasons beyond filial allegiance.15 Case in point: back when my older brother was studying in Israel for his gap year, he used Dad’s recipe to take the first-place trophy in the Great Jerusalem Cholent Cook-Off (yes, there’s an actual trophy somewhere at home). And since, as we’ve discussed, there are no special tricks in technique, it all comes back to the ingredients.
16 As opposed to, e.g., Hungarian style (sholet, sólet). The Pale is shorthand for the Pale of Settlement, an area of Eastern Europe which was, from the late 18th to the early 20th centuries, the only place Jews could live legally in the Russian Empire (though this didn’t prevent frequent pogroms). Most of my family comes from this region. Prior to Brooklyn, that is.
Ours is a common variation on the style of cholent that hails from the Pale.16 In addition to the standard potatoes, onions, pearled barley, and beans, we use flanken, always—ideally the thicker cut that distinguishes Jewish-style short ribs from their Korean counterparts. We are firm believers in the gospel of marrow bones. Three to five of these, readily available in chunky yet manageable 1–2” cross-sections from your local kosher butcher, lend an inimitable depth of flavor to the stew (to say nothing of the religious experience that grace those who carefully extract the wobbly morsel of marrow within). We add copious amounts of kosher salt, somewhere between a pinch and a palm with each component ceremoniously tossed in.
And, of course, our secret ingredient. No family recipe is complete without a secret ingredient.
17 Once again, I owe much of this geo-historical charting to the luminous Rabbi Gil Marks z”l and his brilliant magnum opus, The Encyclopedia of Jewish Food (HMH, 2010).
The original recipe of the Pharisees was nothing like the stew I know. It couldn’t be, as Jews would encounter neither potatoes nor common beans until the Columbian Exchange over a millennium and a half later. Rather, the predecessor to my cholent probably resembled something more like harisa (alt: harees—not to be confused with harissa, the beloved Maghrebi chili paste), an ancient, porridge-like preparation of cracked wheat simmered at length with spices and fats and sometimes meat that is still widely enjoyed in various forms throughout the Arab world.17
I have not tried harisa. I am sure it is delicious, but it is not cholent.
Okay, okay, I’ll tell you the last ingredient. Are you ready? Here it is: a packet of Goodman’s Onion Soup Mix. (N.B. This does not count as Embellishing.)
In my family’s culinary arsenal, Goodman’s is the nuclear option. It can be a totalizing force if used improperly, transforming delicate flavors into an undifferentiated wasteland of onion powder and MSG. But when handled carefully, sprinkled into cholent or rubbed onto a holiday brisket … my god. It tastes of tradition, of family coming together to celebrate. So much so that my sister and I affectionately refer to it as “essence of yuntif.”
Shabbos might not be yuntif, true. But trust me. It just works.
I’ve even made cholent while camping. Twice, in fact. I used one of those cast-iron Dutch ovens, which my friend and I originally purchased for just this purpose. To be honest, it was not my best work. Too dry, especially the first one, and it’s more difficult than you’d think to find marrow bones and flanken in the general stores of the Grand Tetons (the Goodman’s I brought with me). But I did employ the old Sephardic method of burying the pot beneath the embers, which was fun, especially since we weren’t afraid of the Inquisition stirring up ashes to hunt for us unrepentant, stew-eating Jews.
Sometime in the mid-post-classical period (800–1200 CE), the Sephardic Jews of al-Andalus took a bold step—nay, a giant leap—by adding legumes (chickpeas or fava beans) and more water, steering the dish from porridge toward stew. This technique likely owed its provenance to the culinary knowhow of the Moors, who took control of the Iberian Peninsula from the Visigoths at the beginning of the eighth century and held it, under a series of regimes and to varying extents, until the end of the 15th. The dish came to be known as hamindi trigo, a composite term that combines the Ibero-Romance word for wheat with the Mishnaic חמין, meaning “warm thing.” The Jews of Spain continued to tweak their recipes—e.g., the inspired choice, born of a meat shortage, of including whole eggs in the overnight braise, creating the legendary huevos haminados—through the Reconquista years and up until the Alhambra Decree of 1492. Afterward, those Jews who were forcibly converted took to burying their hamin beneath the coals and ashes (giving the stew yet another name: adafina) to hide it from the Inquisition. The Sabbath stew, you see, was prime evidence of heresy, punishable by death.
I’ve had several kinds of hamin, all of them delicious in their own ways. But hamin is not cholent.
Thankfully, our stew had already escaped the confines of the peninsula long before the Expulsion. Sephardic traders had brought their culinary wizardry north on their journeys, introducing their modified version of the dish to the Ashkenazim of Provence as early as the late 12th century. The French Jews, knowing a culinary scoop when they smelled one (French Jews are still French), quickly took to the dish, renaming it in their native tongue.
Shall we have a quick Old French lesson? chald (antecedent of chaud, warm); lent (from the Latin lentus, slow).
In my three years living in Iowa, though, I only made cholent once. Before you shout, know there was a good reason for this: while I regularly hosted Shabbat dinners for my friends, I almost never did the whole Shabbos lunch thing. Saturdays in grad school were, by necessity, prime R&R time—doubly so in winter, when temperatures frequently swing deeply negative and folks are understandably reluctant to leave the warm safety of their homes. Of course, I could’ve easily put it up early on Friday mornings to serve that same night, but cholent at dinner doesn’t sit right.
Still, I recognize this as a missed opportunity. Cholent would’ve been ideal medicine for the harsh Iowa winters, and how nice it would’ve been, how cozy, to have such impetus to gather in the soft, snowy hush of day. “Come, friends!” I might have said, “I have a pot full of cholent waiting for y’all.”
From Provence, the stew spread to the rest of France then deeper into Europe, migrating east as Jews sought to escape successive waves of persecution. Antisemitism has, alas, followed my people wherever we’ve gone. But at least we still have cholent.
18 See, for example, this essay. The footnotes.
My dad is no longer observant, and though there’s nothing stopping him, he rarely makes cholent anymore. I wonder if he wishes he had that spray. And I wonder, too, about my own future relationship with the stew. Once weekly fare, I now have cholent only a few times a year; I, too, am no longer observant. I don’t think this is a coincidence. Which to say that, while I stand by the choices I’ve made and the life I am choosing to live—different from how I was raised, but no less Jewish18—part of me is scared.
I do not want to lose cholent. I do not want to lose the sense of security and belonging it gives me, the warmth of home.
The one time I did make it in Ames was for Kalie and Brian, my sister’s friends become my own, who provided the warm welcome that made my mid-pandemic move to Iowa less isolating. Though they’re both Jewish, they’d never had cholent before. This was a shock to me, sheltered coastal Jew that I am, and I insisted we remedy that.
Most of the components were easy to procure. Beans, potatoes, barley, onions—every store worth its salt has these basics. Marrow bones, surprisingly, were readily available as well, and the kid at the butcher counter was happy to cut my short ribs to spec (I think he just liked using the band saw). The only cholent thing for which I had to flex was the Goodman’s. Luckily, my sister had included a stash of the stuff in a care package she’d sent me a few weeks earlier, because Esther gets it.
They loved it, of course. Impossible not to.
Schalet ist des wahren Gottes
Koscheres Ambrosia,
Wonnebrod des Paradieses,
Yes, this cholent’s pure ambrosia
Of the true and only God:
Paradisal bread of rapture;
A few years ago now, I was talking to my mom and asked her, apropos of some non-traditional position or another I was extolling with the grand and naïve conviction to which I am sometimes prone, if I was the black sheep of the family. “Oh honey,” she said without missing a beat, smiling and serious all at once, “you’re more like the gray sheep.”
I think about this moment all the time. The casual insight of my mother’s observation. How we laughed, without a trace of the bitterness that could so easily have crept in to fill the vacancies of my religious observance. I think about the way she managed so warmly to close the distance and I am filled with gratitude. My grandmother is a lovely woman, you see, but I do not think my dad ever had that kind of reassurance from his mother. And there is a profound loneliness in leaving the fold that is not lessened by conviction.
Perhaps this helps explain the contentment in Dad’s sigh when, the other weekend, I made cholent for us (his recipe, Mom’s, who knows?) for the first time in what must have been years. Cholent, you see, does not care about one’s level of religious observance, because it is a stew.
The slowly bubbling cauldron gradually perfumes the air through the night, spreading through the sleeping house like an open secret. Come morning, the scent is potent, yet also somehow gentle—kind of like a hug, if hugs were made of air and anticipation and the solid assurance of satiety.
This comforting aroma has a temporal quality too, I’ve noticed. In much the same way that, say, fresh brewed coffee signals morning, the scent of cholent marks for me the Sabbath day. This sounds mundane, an accident of association—we happen to drink coffee in the morning, so eventually we come to equate the two. But what I am trying to get across is deeper than that, something that has to do with origins and migrations and the myriad contingent forces that shape a people’s destiny. It has to do, I think, with devotion in the face of precarity and a need, precious and vital, to celebrate how we are. It has to do with the long chain of accumulated memory we call tradition. The smell of cholent wafting through my home may well be an accidental thing, the result of a capricious history guided by random encounters. But it’s also, somehow, essential. Is it a stretch to claim that there is something vital, something holy about this scent?
And, of course, there is the feeling. The way it settles in the stomach, warming the body from within. Taking up space like the Divine Presence herself.
Benjamin DuBow is a writer, chef, and all-around nerd (food, nature, history, science, etc.) from New York. He currently lives in Oaxaca City, Mexico, where he’s cooking at a restaurant and (still) working on his first novel. You can find him on Instagram @the_tale_of_benji.
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Gaining impressive access, Adam Ciralsky reports from the Wyoming—a United States nuclear submarine. It’s a fascinating, yet terrifying, look at the message these subs are designed to send to the rest of the world: don’t mess with us, the response will be apocalyptic.
Upon reaching the hatch, I carefully descended several vertical ladders that were slick with sea spray. Stepping off, it felt like I was stepping back in time. I was surrounded by walls with exposed pipes, old-school circuitry, panels full of analog dials, switches, and gauges. It felt part boiler room, part brewery, part mad scientist lab from a 1950s sci-fi film. The explanation: When the devices on this class of sub were devised in the ’70s and ’80s, they were quite modern. Some have been upgraded; others remain unchanged (one uses a crank!) because they’re reliable, durable, and easy to replace at sea. Here and there, I passed men and women in coveralls who were receiving instructions on throwback speakers and talking into vintage telephones. Save for the advanced systems in the control and sonar rooms (bristling with screens labeled “secret” and “top secret”), everything about the boat—down to the Wyoming’s stated mission (to be “on scene and unseen”)—harkened back to the Cold War. Maybe, I thought, we were being cast in the sequel. Or maybe the original never ended.
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In what feels like a centuries-long plot for world domination, species of ants living in Central and South America have spread across the planet, globalizing their tiny-but-mighty societies alongside our own. For Aeon, science journalist John Whitfield offers a glimpse into their fascinating world.
In the past 150 years, the Argentine ant has spread to pretty much everywhere that has hot, dry summers and cool, wet winters. A single supercolony, possibly descended from as few as half a dozen queens, now stretches along 6,000 kilometres of coastline in southern Europe. Another runs most of the length of California. The species has arrived in South Africa, Australia, New Zealand and Japan, and even reached Easter Island in the Pacific and St Helena in the Atlantic. Its allegiances span oceans: workers from different continents, across millions of nests containing trillions of individuals, will accept each other as readily as if they had been born in the same nest. Workers of the world united, indeed. But not completely united.
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Ever lost your way in the wilderness? In 2021, nearly 3,400 people got lost in a US national park. In the 2000s, a researcher named Robert Koester gathered and analyzed data on the behaviors of different types of people, from children to experienced hikers, who’ve wandered and gotten lost in the wild. In what direction do they go? How do geographic features and different terrains influence their movements? In this piece for Undark, Sarah Scoles reports on the growing science of “lost person behavior,” which in turn can inform the strategies of search-and-rescue missions.
His decision to follow the drainage, and then stay near a stream, fits with Koester’s hiker profile. That means the search managers could have had a good idea that they might find him here, and so made plans to search the area: “Hikers are guided by terrain to other linear features,” Koester wrote. Of all find locations, linear features like streams account for the largest percentage of hikers. In this category, people tend to go downhill too, as Read did.
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Moderated by Emily Bazelon | The New York Times Magazine | February 1, 2024 | 9,019 words
I was visiting my parents this week, helping them pack up the home where they’ve lived for almost 39 years, and one evening, our conversation turned to Gaza. While we didn’t see eye to eye on everything, we agreed that one of the most important steps that we as outside witnesses to this tragedy can take is to direct our attention beyond the headlines, statistics, and slogans. We must look at the roots of the conflict, but not as they’ve been sanitized and presented to Western audiences for far too long—we must look at the roots as they actually are, ugly and gnarly. A perfect starting point is this discussion, moderated by Emily Bazelon, which examines the period between 1920, when the British mandate for Palestine was established, and 1948, when Palestinians were forced from their homes to make way for the state of Israel. I read the piece after the conversation with my parents and was particularly moved by Nadim Bawalsa’s description of his family’s experience of the Nakba. “Since December 1947, no one in my family has entered our home in Jerusalem,” Bawalsa writes. “My grandparents were able to briefly return to Palestine with their children to live with my grandmother’s family in Ramallah during the period of Jordanian rule until 1967, but they were not allowed to go to the west side of Jerusalem. Following 1967, we’ve only been able to go back as U.S. citizens—tourists.” Now, as I tape up boxes full of cherished objects, I can’t stop thinking: my parents will miss their home, but at least they are choosing to leave it. —SD
Eva Holland | Outside | February 7, 2024 | 5,325 words
Having read Into the Wild, I was already familiar with the story of Chris McCandless (or Jon Krakauer’s version, at least). The naive explorer left his home in the northern Virginia suburbs and traveled across the continent, eventually ending up in an abandoned bus in Alaska, where he starved to death at age 24. Although gripped by the adventure story, I didn’t fully understand what drove McCandless to leave society and cut contact with his family. Eva Holland felt the same way, and her reporting takes pains to explain the abusive home life he left behind, as told by his sister, Carine McCandless, in her 2014 book The Wild Truth. The missing pieces finally fell into place. But this essay isn’t really about McCandless. It is about the bus. McCandless may have been its most famous resident, but it has been a part of many people’s stories—and that of Alaska itself. Holland weaves the layered history of Bus 142 right up to its new chapter: its removal from the wilderness of the Stampede Trail to its new home at the University of Alaska Museum of the North. By taking the time to piece together the broader picture, Holland nods to the thousands of people to whom the bus means something, herself included. (She recounts her own visit to the bus with beautiful reverence.) The museum exhibit is not yet open, but some 700 photos of the bus graffiti have already been compiled into an album online, and visitors are encouraged to claim their tag and tell the story of their visit to the Stampede Trail. In its new life at the museum, I hope Bus 142 will not only tell these stories, but be a part of many more.—CW
Kevin Pang | Chicago Magazine | February 13, 2024 | 6,458 words
A writing teacher once told me that great profiles make personal obsessions public. Hot on the heels of “A Knife Forged in Fire” by Laurence Gonzales, Chicago Magazine has done it again with Kevin Pang’s nuanced portrait of ramen chef Mike Satinover. Both pieces feature people deeply obsessed with their craft, and as a reader you get to ride the wave of devotion, savoring every detail along the way. In this case, those details include delicious globules of fat floating atop ramen made with precision and care. Pang seasons his writing with the same deep respect that Satinover puts into his ramen—a dish he fell in love with after choosing to study Japanese in high school. He’s been trying to make the perfect bowl of noodles ever since, earning the handle “Ramen Lord” for his careful study and open-source approach, publishing recipes under development with rigorous notes for anyone to attempt at home. In addition to serving a savor-y profile of Satinover’s noodle bona fides, Pang doesn’t shrink from critics who claim cultural appropriation, given that Satinover is a white American making a traditional Japanese dish; he discovers that the criticism comes “largely from white people on social media,” and that “when gaijin come to Japan and attempt their culture’s cooking, the locals view it not as appropriation but as appreciation of their cuisine.” Pang’s piece is so rich and delightfully nerdy, I could not help but slurp it up. —KS
Jessica Traynor | The Dial | February 6, 2024 | 3,423 words
Last night, I finished Person of Interest, the police procedural/sci-fi show that ended in 2016, which feels like ages ago, but the show’s premise—a society surveilled 24/7 by an artificial intelligence—is incredibly timely. There are numerous scenes in the series that require a rogue team of hackers and ex-military operatives to break into a warehouse or secret office floor to alter or destroy servers and computer equipment. I kept thinking about these physical facilities that hum along around the world while reading this essay, in which Jessica Traynor recounts a family trip to a data center just outside of Dublin. Data centers have proliferated in industrial business parks across Ireland: 82 in total, with another 40 planned to be built. These centers store much of Europe’s digital information, but at a cost, increasing Ireland’s energy footprint and straining its power grid. Traynor’s musings on the “fragility of social and national memory,” however, resonate with me the most. Is digital preservation, and the cloud to which we upload important and precious information, really the most effective way to store knowledge? I realize my current entertainment binge depicts extreme scenarios, but it still shows that these data centers are anything but indestructible. Here, Traynor points to an unsustainable energy path, Ireland’s long and “patchy” memory, and the “fantasy of technological stability” to argue that the digitization of its records is not as secure as we think. I love stumbling on pieces like this—a thoughtful read on an unexpected topic. —CLR
David Pierce | The Verge | February 14, 2024 | 2,992 words
I read stories this week that elicited an acute emotional response, and I read stories this week that dazzled with prose. But nothing I read this week felt more urgent or important than David Pierce’s explication of robots.txt, that snippet of code on every webpage that allows (or doesn’t allow) search engines to catalog its content. See, robots.txt has effectively functioned on the honor system: search companies agreed not to send their automated web crawlers into sites that expressly disallowed them, and everyone was more or less happy. Thirty years later, though, there’s a new breed of web crawler in town. These new bots swarm websites not to catalog content but to feed that content to AI, a technology that threatens to replace search as the default means of online discovery (and does so by digesting and regurgitating the content in a monstrous, unciteable form). Even worse, AI crawlers don’t necessarily respect robots.txt—and there’s nothing legally compelling them to do so. Pierce frames the conundrum perfectly: “As the AI companies continue to multiply, and their crawlers grow more unscrupulous, anyone wanting to sit out or wait out the AI takeover has to take on an endless game of whac-a-mole. They have to stop each robot and crawler individually, if that’s even possible, while also reckoning with the side effects. If AI is in fact the future of search, as Google and others have predicted, blocking AI crawlers could be a short-term win but a long-term disaster.” For three decades, websites large and small have depended on search to help build their readership; now they’re caught in a philosophical quagmire. Trust the robots, or sink into oblivion? —PR
Audience Award
Which story was the most-read editor’s pick this week?
Peter Holley | Texas Monthly | February 7, 2024 | 3,620 words
Yes, the headline is undeniable. Yes, the story delivers on its promise. Yes, Peter Holley’s story about Austin Riley’s harrowing ordeal will stay with you. A chilling reminder that animals gonna animal, no matter how tight the bond. —PR
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