Long Matzoh Poems
Long Matzoh Poems. Below are the most popular long Matzoh by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Matzoh poems by poem length and keyword.
The chicken soup and matzoh balls
Are ready for the pot.
The hard-boiled eggs are in the fridge.
(We never eat them hot.)
The items for the Seder plate
All wait for their debut,
With my homemade charoses.
(Google if you have no clue.)
The chicken cutlets, farfel-topped
And stuffing made from same
Will share the table with some veggies,
Sautéed to acclaim.
Of course, there’ll be gefilte fish
With horseradish (so hot!)
And grape juice or sweet Kosher wine,
Which really hits the spot.
With home-baked brownies and
Some cookies vying for dessert
Along with lotsa matzoh,
There’s an “Oy, I’m stuffed!” alert.
But all the food is not, to me,
The most important part -
It’s sharing these traditions with
Those closest to my heart.
Today I measured, chopped and baked
And all from scratch, with nothing faked,
From old familiar recipes
I know, to varying degrees.
The matzoh balls I shaped, as well,
(The soup, however, made by Mel*)
And last, charoses** was prepared
With not one nut or apple spared.
The kitchen’s not my natural spot,
But on the holidays, I’ve got
The need to potchke*** so I feel
Connected to this ancient meal.
My husband asked me why I fuss,
A question worthy to discuss,
Yet all that I can say, for me,
Is this is how it has to be.
For even if nobody cared
About these dishes I have shared,
I’ll keep traditions up, unbowed
And know my grandmas would be proud.
*my husband **a dish for the Passover meal
***fiddling or messing around, especially regarding cooking
Eating in a New York diner?
Here’s a little scoop:
You don’t have to be Jewish
To have matzoh balls in soup.
For in this local area
(New Jersey is included),
When soup is on the menu,
Matzoh ball won’t be excluded.
The chicken broth which forms the base
Should have sufficient salt,
Although complaints most often place
The matzoh balls at fault.
In restaurants, they’re often huge.
Most times, just one’s afloat;
But it should have a fluffiness
To fill you, not to bloat.
Though matzoh balls are served in soup
Each day throughout the year,
The only time I eat them’s when
The holiday* is here.
But like that Levy’s rye ad said,
You needn’t be a Jew
To eat some soup with matzoh balls –
Go on, it’s good for you!
So if you’ve never had a taste,
It’s time to wet your whistle.
I guarantee you’ll love it,
Likely more than just a bissel**!
*Passover **Yiddish for a little bit
With springtime now upon us,
If your town has lots of Jews,
The supermarket has some foods
You might have need to use.
For Passover’s approaching
And the holiday demands
No bread nor pasta be consumed;
Thus, stores have made their plans.
A special section’s filled with
All the substitutes we need
To serve at Seder time, just like
The ancient texts decreed.
There’s matzoh meal, gefilte fish
And macaroons and cakes
And all of the ingredients
For anyone who bakes.
This Passover array depends
On neighborhood and store,
So often pickings might be slim
While other shops have more.
For Jewish folk with markets
With no matzoh, I’d behoove
You to tell the owners how you feel
Or do what I’d do - move!
We’re having a Seder on Zoom
And Passover foods we'll consume.
We’ll eat as a group
Things like matzoh ball soup
But our seats won’t be in the same room.
We’ll read the Haggadah to tell
Of the story we all know so well –
How the Jews, once enslaved,
Crossed the sea and were saved
Though they wandered around for a spell.
Tradition requires we recite
Plagues which filled the Egyptians with fright:
Locusts, blood, boils and then
Frogs and more, which made 10,
All repeated on Passover night.
So by sundown, the Seder will start,
Though from custom we have to depart.
Still, by screen we’ll connect
And we’ll one day reflect
How this plague couldn’t keep us apart.
My grandma had a book in which
To write what she recalled
Of her early life; I found it
And I read what she had scrawled.
She came from Pinsk and she described
A time when she was young
When she helped her mom make matzoh;
To this memory she’d clung.
Her father drove a trolley car
But left her mother when
She was pregnant with child # three –
That happened even then.
To make ends meet, her mother ran
A restaurant from her home,
A two room flat - how hard was that?
(But that’s another poem.)
My grandma never got to go
To high school, but she stayed
At a job ‘til she got married –
Just three bucks a week she made!
She never once complained aloud
Yet as I read each word,
I’m glad that even though she’s gone,
Her feelings have been heard.
Each year I make the matzoh balls,
Which come out pretty good.
My husband cooks the chicken soup;
Our roles are understood.
He always wings it when he cooks,
Just uses what’s on hand
And never needs a recipe,
Which I can’t understand.
I follow the directions
When I cook or when I bake
And measure the ingredients
So there is no mistake.
My time-worn recipes are stashed
In cookbooks or in files;
The drips and spatters dotting them
Evoke nostalgic smiles.
Yet always for the matzoh balls
What has the most appeal
Is the recipe that’s on the box
Of any matzoh meal.
That’s up until this year – there was
No recipe at all!
I Googled and saw dozens,
But not one my matzoh ball.
Until I saw a posting
From a woman who, like me,
Asked if anyone could help her
Find that box-back recipe.
Voila! Someone responded
With a picture of the box.
It’s amazing what technology,
From time to time, unlocks.
I made the matzoh balls
And hope they’re good as they appear,
But I copied down the recipe
So I’ll be set next year.
A squirrel dashed in front of me,
An acorn in his mouth.
I was heading up the block;
He was going south.
He on four feet, I on two;
Each, though, in a hurry.
I’d increased my pace a bit;
He was all a’scurry.
I had many chores ahead;
Maybe he as well.
What a squirrel’s day is like
Is kinda hard to tell.
Still, we both were racing home
With breakfast on our minds –
He, no doubt, an acorn,
One of his more precious finds.
I’d be having coffee
With some matzoh and some cheese,
Each of us anticipating
Food we hoped would please.
Yet, we’d shared a moment,
Like an urban tip of hat:
A species cross-connection
And c’mon, how nice is that?
The holiday’s at sunset
So the afternoon before
Is time for eating food
We won’t be eating anymore.
No bread or beer or pasta -
Not a bagel for a week!
I’ve been doing this since childhood,
So there’ll be no need to sneak.
It’s bizarre - I’m not religious
But tradition reigns supreme
And restricting what you eat is not
As hard as it might seem.
Of course, we use some substitutes
For cooking and to bake
And there are lots of recipes
For foods that we can make.
Tonight there will be matzoh balls
In soup to start our feast,
With 8 more days of special meals
Until we are released.
Tonight we’ll sit around the table
While we’re reminiscing
Both about the Israelites
And those whom we are missing.
Every Seder takes me back
To those when I was young.
I can hear my Zadie’s voice,
The Hebrew that was sung.
I can taste my Nana’s sponge cake
And gefilte fish,
So much love invested into
Every single dish.
Horse radish my grandpa made
Was mirrored by his face –
Beet-red cheeks and crinkled eyes,
Such merriment in place.
The hard-boiled eggs were split in two;
My cousin got the white.
I consumed the yolk, of course,
In one comedic bite.
Second night my father’s folks
Played host and that was fun.
My grandpa hid the matzoh
To be found when we were done.
We all know where it was, though;
On a pillow he reclined,
The Afikomen tucked beneath
His trouser-clad behind.
He’d get up slightly, just to reach
A serving plate or wine;
Then all the cousins made a grab
To say, “This matzoh’s mine!”
My parents are no longer here,
My grandparents as well;
But if I close eyes,
On Seders past I like to dwell.
Tonight we’ll gather for the meal
But if I tell the truth,
It will be lovely, but no match
For Seders of my youth.
(A Seder is the special Passover meal; the Afikomen is a piece of matzoh (cracker) that's hidden to be found by one of the children for a reward; gefilte fish is a specially made fish concoction that's definitely an acquired taste; Zadie is a grandfather - he was my great-grandfather; Nana is a grandmother.)