The Welcoming Committee

On Friday night at the Sephardic Temple in Los Angeles, I sat next to a man named Joe. Although he lives here in the United States now, he came with his wife to the United States almost 60 years ago from a displaced persons’ camp in Greece, which were set up after World War II.

“Two days later, we were at your grandparents’ house for dinner,” he said. “Your mother was just a little girl.”

He was not the only person I had heard this story from. I couldn’t tell you how many members of that older generation told me a similar story of how they arrived in this country and within days ended up at my grandparents’ table. It was a very special phenomenon, particularly considering who they were.

Joe and Regina Amira were not wealthy people. On the contrary, they were poor, with my Papu (Joe) having to work three jobs to get by. They never owned a home and never really had a lot of space. But they opened their hearts and their apartment to whomever needed a place to eat.

This tradition continued in weird random ways. I remember once that my grandmother was having a bed delivered to the guest room of their apartment in Beverly Hills, and she treated the movers to a home-cooked meal. It felt like there never needed to be a direct occasion for being invited to a meal at the Amira house; you just were, and my grandmother was always there with some form of food. The door seemed to be open to anyone, whether it was my grandmother’s upstairs neighbor or her grandchildren through the years.

So many years have gone by since my grandmother even was able to cook. I’m a married woman and my grandparents are long gone, only available to me in photographs and long periods of thought where I concentrate on their voices, pulling them up like repressed memories. I miss them more than I can say, particularly now; I’m sure that Nony would be able to tell me how I would be able to survive a recession like this and Papu would be sitting in his chair, thrilled that he could engage someone like Ari in talks of politics, which is something he loved very much.

I yearn for my welcoming committee, the people who brought us into their home and wrapped their arms around us so tightly. I long for that sacred kitchen where I was able to say anything to my grandmother with no judgment involved. There is so much loss, and a space in my heart that will always be empty without them.

And yet through them comes a few miracles.

The other night, Ari and I opened our doors to our friends who live close by, making a dinner for them and sharing in each other’s company. We laughed and shared our New Year’s resolutions together. I noticed the wildly random group of people there: immigrants making new families in the United States, couples coming together in love and devotion, best friends sharing their lives and the ultimate strengthening of friendships.

At one point, I made a toast to our friendship, and my beloved friend Nelli began to talk about Ari and I and how we open our home and share our lives. Strangely, though, I had heard these words before. They were about Joe and Reggie, the words that were spoken through the years about them. I even decided to show everyone their picture and tell their story. They would always be alive through me.

As though this wasn’t enough to bring them back, then came another way. The Saturday night following that dinner, my mother hosted a dinner for her oldest brother, Victor, at her house. The whole family was there, including a new addition: my cousin Amy’s boyfriend, Mikey. As the evening passed and we finished our dinner, my sister brought up the suggestion to play some home movies. With that, Ari, Amy, Mikey, my sister and I marched into the living room to replay the memories that my cousins Benny and Sarah had collected for us.

I watched as the whole family gathered in the room and were greeted by family members here and no longer here, remembered and forgotten. We watched as my grandmother laughed and my great aunt goofed around. We watched my cousin Jack film the three cousins together, watching as how our personalities never really changed (including the part about me bouncing around).

My eyes welled up as I heard my grandmother’s voice, which seemed so far away from me, and Amy and I embraced each other, staring at the television screen, trying to absorb every second of our grandparents like a sponge. As Mikey enjoyed getting insight into our family (and his girlfriend’s funny four-year-old nature), I felt like we had remembered who had brought us together. As we looked at the screen, we watched as they spoke to us from across time, welcoming us back into the warmth of their love – all while leaving room for the newest additions to the clan.

So in honor of their love and devotion, I offer up a recipe for squash frittada. This is Amy’s favorite, and I hope she sees this and enjoys this.

SQUASH FRITTADA

Pam

3 lbs. zucchini

1 large onion, diced

3 tablespoons butter or oil

3 of eggs

1-2 tablespoons chicken consomme powder

1 cup parmesan cheese, plus extra

About 2 cups matzo meal, divided use

5-6 matzah pieces

Preheat oven 350. Spray baking sheet with Pam and layer with enough matzo meal to coat the bottom of the pan. Toast the matzo meal in the oven until it's golden brown.

Meanwhile, saute the onion in butter until translucent. Allow to cool. Grate the zucchini into a large bowl. Add the onion, eggs, consomme powder, parmesan cheese and 1 1/2 cups matzo meal. Mix thoroughly.

Wet the matzah slightly and layer into the baking sheet evenly. Pour the zucchini mixture on top. Sprinkle matzo meal and parmesan cheese on top. Score the mixture before baking in order to allow easy cutting afterwards. Place in the oven and bake for 1 hour. Serve, or can be frozen for later use.

Quick Tip: If you want a tangier flavor, my mother likes using half sharp cheddar cheese and half parmesan.