(by Crystal Bennett)
A one-woman show making everything happen—that’s my mom. When my brother and I were growing up in Westchester County, New York, she reinvented herself more than once to make sure we had everything we needed. She stretched every dollar and somehow had the energy to turn the house—and especially the kitchen—into a place of magic. I didn’t fully grasp how tight things were until I was an adult because she shielded my brother and me from it, making sure we never felt the strain.
Mom was an “artiste,” although never trained for it. In the 1960s, girls didn’t always have the same opportunities as boys. So, while her brother went to medical school, Mom settled for a local low-cost college; art school would have been an impractical choice for earning a living, plus it was assumed she would be getting married and “taken care of.” When the marriage didn’t last, she worked in a series of law offices, eventually turning the skills she acquired into her own business involving intellectual property.
But her creativity touched everything she did, from our home to her wardrobe. She loved things with a bit of off-balance charm, preferring asymmetry over perfect lines, so you would never find pictures hung in a perfectly straight line, or matching throw pillows on the sofa, or the same number of rings or bracelets on each hand. Whether shopping in Tibetan and African stores or hitting up flea markets, she had an eye for the extraordinary. On special weekends, we’d escape to Woodstock, New York, known for its arts colony and the famous music festival (although that actually took place at a dairy farm about 60 miles away). We’d soak up galleries and live music in the village square, bringing home candles and incense. She was always true to herself, authentic in every way, never bothered by what others thought.
She infused that same creative touch into her cooking, elevating even the most basic meals into something special. Food had to look as good as it tasted. The best dishes and cutlery weren’t reserved for special occasions; they were used every day. She drank her Tab with a metal straw long before it became an environmental badge of honor. Even a casual snack came with a cloth napkin and a placemat. She could’ve made a tuna sandwich look museum-worthy. And then there was (drumroll, please) her matzo ball soup.
From a young age, I was her sous-chef for the preparation of this special holiday soup, mixing the matzo meal with the egg and oil. Once the broth was bubbling, I was by her side, ready for ball duty. Battles have been waged in Jewish families over the consistency of matzo balls, but Mom wasn’t fussy about them—they just had to hit that sweet spot between too fluffy and too dense. But rolling them was serious business. My mom made it look effortless, while I was usually trying to keep them from falling apart, both of us laughing so hard that we could barely see (or roll) straight. Finally, I got the honor of dropping them into the boiling broth. By the time we sat at the table, the pure comfort made life slow down for a moment.
My mom showed me a thing or two about food, but she taught me a trillion things about life. First and foremost: Be independent, always ready to take care of yourself. She didn’t just make decisions for us—she brought my brother and me into the conversation, even when we were quite young. We were encouraged to express our individuality in every way. (I rocked a tuxedo jacket with tails in middle school and had a fascination with origami.) My mom made sure I knew the world was mine to explore, no holding back—especially since she grew up in a time of more limited opportunities.
Today, she’s still my best friend, and food is one of the ways we stay connected. Only now, we’ve taken it up a notch and hit the road. My mom, my 14-year-old son, and I have made it our thing to travel around the country, three generations deep, bouncing between cooking classes, walking food tours, and jazz brunches. We’re always discovering something new, and the noshing game is strong.
And I'm rolling those same matzo balls with my son, continuing the tradition in our own home. He took to it fast, and watching him nail the process feels like a full-circle moment. When we’re in the kitchen together, I realize it’s not just the recipe that gets passed down—it’s the stories, the cackles, the creation of memories. And if he doesn’t keep this tradition going, well, Grammy and I might just have to step in with a friendly intervention.
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Crystal Bennett serves on the board of The Matzo Project and is a partner at Little Big Brands. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, and can be found at crystal@matzoproject.com and crystal@littlebigbrands.com.
Matzo Ball Soup
For the balls:
2 eggs
4 T. vegetable oil
3/4 c. matzo ball mix
For the soup:
3 T. oil
1 large onion, coarsely sliced
2 carrots, peeled and coarsely chopped
2 stalks celery, coarsely chopped
12 c. chicken or vegetable broth (homemade or good quality stock)
optional: 2 - 3 boneless chicken breasts
12 oz. fine or wide egg noodles (chef’s choice)
chopped fresh dill
Beat eggs in a bowl with vegetable oil.
Stir in matzo crumbs to combine.
Refrigerate for 15 - 30 minutes while you prepare the soup.
In a large pot over medium heat, warm the oil.
Add vegetables and sauté, stirring often, until soft, about 15 minutes.
Add broth and chicken (if using).
Bring to a boil, then lower heat and simmer for 30 minutes until chicken is cooked through.
Carefully strain soup, reserving vegetables and chicken.
Return broth to pot and bring to a boil.
Wet hands and gently form matzo mixture into 12 walnut-sized balls (don’t pack too tightly).
Drop them into the boiling broth. Cover the pot, reduce heat to low, and simmer for 30 minutes.
Bring a separate pot of water to a boil, and cook the noodles according to the package instructions. Drain and set aside.
Roughly chop chicken into bite-sized pieces.
When matzo balls are cooked through, add chicken, noodles, and any strained
vegetables (if desired) back into the broth.
Garnish with dill.
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