The Sabbath Stew

 Benjamin DuBow | Longreads | February 20, 2024 | 4,870 words (17 minutes)

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. 

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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.

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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).

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.

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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.

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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.

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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. 

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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. 

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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.

“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!”

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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

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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 

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. 

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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!”

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Suffice it to say, the Pharisees won out. Or survived, which is effectively the same thing.¹⁴ 

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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. 

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.

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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. 

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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.

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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.

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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 hamin di 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.

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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).

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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.”

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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. 

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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 is 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. 

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Editor: Peter Rubin

Copy Editor: Krista Stevens