Families pass down all sorts of heirlooms from generation to generation. One of the most important in mine is a plant. No, it’s not a rare orchid or a prize rose. It’s just ordinary horseradish (Amoracia rusticana).
As far as anyone remembers, the plant originated in my grandmother’s backyard. Before she died, I dug up a portion and it has thrived in my various vegetable plots for about forty years. At least one of my sisters and some of my cousins also have part of this pungent perennial.
As in my grandmother’s day, each year when my family gathers for a Passover Seder, a meal that is also a retelling of the Exodus from Egypt, a piece of the plant’s root is placed in a spot of honor among other symbolic foods. At the appropriate point in the story telling, we share pieces of this “bitter herb” symbolizing the bitterness of slavery under pharaoh.
For those of us who remember my grandmother’s generation with their eastern European accents, the horseradish is also a reminder of
America might not have been the Promised Land of milk and honey for my grandmother and her siblings, but despite hardship and occasional anti-Semitism, there was sufficient business opportunity to become farmers, merchants, and craftsmen, and enough liberty to
Not an American native, horseradish is itself a European immigrant. Though it is fiery enough to make the most stalwart among us turn red in the face if we take too large a bite, it is one of the most desired tastes at a table full of scrumptious food. It reminds us that we are gathered not just to recall the deep Middle Eastern past, but to honor and remember those whose presence on these shores made our lives and that of our children and grandchildren possible.
