I'll admit, I am more than a little concerned about my brisket.
It's Tuesday afternoon and both ovens are going at 300 degrees. I have about 5 pounds of brisket in each oven, snug in a bath of onions and wine and chicken broth and spices under their tin foil teepees.
My Aunt Harieta could rock a head scarf and a brisket.
I did not, as my mom and nana and Joan Nathan in herJewish Holiday Cookbook, season the meat with Lipton Onion Soup mix.
My Aunt Harieta, whose brisket I ate most often while growing up, seasoned hers with a soup mix as well, along with a few other surprising ingredients. Harieta's youngest son emailed me a scan of the recipe, written in her looping script. My cousin wrote a lovely message that accompanied the attachment, plump with nostalgia and emotion – my Aunt Harieta died from cancer almost 15 years ago.
It made me think of holidays past in her very unique home, a place that was a true reflection of what a singular woman she was. My aunt Harieta and Uncle Stanley lived in a house that was more like a spacious rabbit warren in its design, with spherical rooms and hidden lofts and unexpected passageways. There was also a geometric playroom for their four sons with a zip line fastened to the ceiling, which is where I spent many holidays traveling from one end to the other.
Harieta was a cantor with a powerful soprano and she served her brisket musically to grateful family amassed around a large, circular dining table.
When I decided to make brisket for my husband's family, who we will be sharing Rosh Hashanah with this year, I wanted to pay homage to Harieta. At the same time, I hoped to create something entirely all my own, a brisket that would bind to my sons' memories of the holiday itself, just like Harieta's brisket is bound to my own.
So, carefully positioning the photo of her that I keep in my kitchen so she could watch me work, I unwrapped my raw brisket and started cherry picking my favorite bits from different recipes. I browned, braised, seasoned and simmered before letting the two pieces take their brothy nap in my ovens.
And so I sat, eyeing the ovens, paranoid that the flavor blend in the sauce would taste weird, worrying that I should have just stuck to one recipe, anxious that I'd overcook the poor thing and my polite relatives would spend their holiday dinner chewing until their jaws were sore.
I pulled them out of the oven and fretted about doneness, popped them in for another 12 minutes, then decided to trust my gut that they were cooked enough. The boys came home from school a few minutes after.
"The house smells amazing!" Maxon said.
"Wow, those look really good, mom," Ezra added, peeking over the foil where the briskets were cooling. "It smells really briskety."
I had a small taste, which was enough to know the flavors went well together. I am still worried the meat is overcooked, and I won't know for sure until Wednesday night. I wish I could have called my Aunt Har and asked her how I know the brisket is cooked perfectly (I also wish I could call her regularly for advice on raising sons). I hope she really was there with me in my kitchen as I worked, guiding me to brisket excellence. But, flawed or no, it is my first brisket after all. If I don't love it, I will certainly learn from it.