Growing up in the 1970’s and 80’s, there was a famous movie series called Dirty Harry. Clint Eastwood starred as Detective “Dirty” Harry Callahan, a no nonsense police officer who got things done despite the bureaucracy or politics. I was not allowed to see those movies, but I would hear clips from them growing up. And as I got older I would watch some of them. One such movie was “Sudden Impact” (1983). There is a famous scene at the beginning of the movie, where Harry Callahan is called to see the scene of a murder and briefly inspects it with another officer eating a hot dog. After a few moments, Dirty Harry looks at his companion disgusted, and walks off. As Harry walks away, the other detective calls after him asking if the scene was too bloody for him? Harry grunted and said no. His friend persisted…

“Old ladies being bashed in the head for their Social Security checks… Teachers being thrown out of a window because they don’t give A’s. That doesn’t bother me a bit.”

“Come on, Harry, take it easy.”

“Or this job either, having to wade through the scum of this city….Being swept away by bigger and bigger waves of corruption, apathy and red tape. No, that doesn’t bother me… But you know what does bother me? You know what makes me sick to my stomach? Watching you stuff your face with those hot dogs. Nobody, I mean nobody, puts ketchup on a hot dog.”

Strangely, I could relate to that comment. Having grown up in a family where people were very strict regarding condiments for hot dogs (mustard, sauerkraut, and occasionally relish), the site of people putting ketchup on a hot dog really bothered me.Spilling the Beans: Why Can I Enjoy a Cup of Coffee on Pesach, but not a Hotdog with Mustard

During Passover (Pesach), observant Jews universally abstain from consuming chametz – leavened products derived from wheat, barley, spelt, oats, and rye. However, a cultural and religious divergence exists regarding a secondary category of prohibited foods known as kitniyot. This distinction, which has persisted for approximately eight centuries, reflects how Jewish traditions evolved differently across communities.

What Constitutes Kitniyot?

The term kitniyot (קִטְנִיּוֹת, pronounced kit-nee-YOTE) etymologically derives from the Hebrew word for “small things” and originally referred to legumes. Today, the category has expanded to include:

• Legumes (beans, lentils, peas)
• Cereal grains outside the five prohibited species (rice, millet)
• New World crops (corn, quinoa)
• Oilseeds (sesame, sunflower, flax)
• Peanuts (botanically legumes, despite being called “nuts”)
• Mustard seeds

    This prohibition developed specifically among Ashkenazi Jewish communities (those with origins in Central and Eastern Europe), while Sephardic and Mizrahi communities (from Iberia, North Africa, and the Middle East) generally permit kitniyot during Passover. This difference perfectly illustrates how geographic separation led to diverse interpretations of Jewish practice.

Linguistic Mix-ups and Botanical Confusion

    Some of the most intriguing aspects of the kitniyot prohibition involve cases of mistaken identity and linguistic confusion. Consider these fascinating examples:

    Corn became kitniyot through translation error: When corn (maize) arrived in Europe from the Americas, many languages called it “Turkish wheat” (in German, Türkischer Weizen). This name led Ashkenazi Jews to believe it was a type of wheat, automatically placing it in the forbidden category. By the time botanists clarified that corn was an entirely different species, the prohibition had already become entrenched in Ashkenazi practice.
    Peanuts: the legume in disguise: Despite having “nut” in their English name, peanuts are botanically legumes that grow underground. This botanical reality placed them in the kitniyot category, though some authorities like Rabbi Moshe Feinstein argued they should be permitted since they were unknown when the original prohibition developed. Nevertheless, most Ashkenazi communities continue avoiding peanuts during Passover.
    Potatoes escaped the prohibition: Potatoes were also new to Europe in the post-medieval period, but they avoided the kitniyot designation. One explanation involves another linguistic quirk: in some German dialects, potatoes were called Erdäpfel (“earth apples”), suggesting they were fruits rather than starchy vegetables related to grains. This linguistic happenstance may have saved Ashkenazi Passover meals from becoming even more restricted!

These cases illustrate how something as simple as what a food is called could determine whether it appeared on the Passover table for generations to come.

The Agricultural Roots of the Tradition

    Perhaps the most compelling explanation for this divergence lies in the different agricultural systems used in medieval Europe versus the Mediterranean region.

In medieval Europe, where Ashkenazi customs developed, farmers employed a three-field crop rotation system:

• One field for autumn-sown cereal crops (wheat, rye)
• A second field for spring-sown crops (including legumes)
• A third field left fallow to restore soil fertility

    This system required annual rotation, meaning legumes would be planted in fields that had contained wheat the previous season. Without modern sorting technology, cross-contamination between harvests was virtually inevitable—wheat grains would remain in the soil, later sprouting alongside the legume crop.

    Mediterranean regions, where Sephardic communities lived, used a different system with longer fallow periods between plantings. This created a greater separation between grain and legume cultivation, substantially reducing the risk of cross-contamination. These different agricultural realities led to different religious practices.

The Curious Case of Mustard

    Mustard holds a distinctive place in the kitniyot discussion. Unlike some later additions to the category (such as New World crops), mustard seeds (חרדל/chardal) appear explicitly in the earliest rabbinic sources discussing the kitniyot prohibition. When 13th-century Ashkenazi authorities like Rabbeinu Peretz began codifying these practices, mustard was specifically enumerated.

Several factors explain mustard’s inclusion:

• Mustard seeds can be ground into a powder visually resembling flour made from prohibited grains
• They were often grown in rotation with grains in European agriculture
• When moistened, mustard seeds exhibit a sprouting behavior that could be misinterpreted as “leavening”
• They were commonly stored alongside grains, creating practical concerns about mixing

While some contemporary authorities have begun reconsidering certain aspects of the kitniyot prohibition, mustard typically remains firmly within the category of foods avoided by those observing the restriction.

Other Factors Behind the Prohibition

The agricultural explanation isn’t the only reason for the development of the kitniyot custom:

Visual similarity: Many kitniyot can be ground into flour that resembles grain flour, potentially causing confusion.

Practical kitchen concerns: In medieval households, the same cooking vessels might be used for both grains and legumes, raising cross-contamination issues.

Social dimensions: Some scholars suggest that since legume bread was considered “poor people’s food,” prohibiting both grain and legume products during Passover created a sense of communal equality.

Gender considerations: As women were primarily responsible for food preparation, some historians propose that the prohibition might have partly served to simplify the complex task of maintaining a kosher-for-Passover kitchen by creating clearer categories of forbidden foods. Medieval Jewish women faced the enormous pressure of preparing for Passover while ensuring no forbidden substances contaminated their kitchens—having clear categories simplified this daunting responsibility.

The joy factor: One particularly curious explanation comes from Rabbeinu Manoah, an early rabbinic source, who simply stated that “there is no joy in eating kitniyot.” While modern diners might disagree with this assessment (especially lovers of hummus or rice dishes), it reflects how subjective cultural preferences sometimes influence religious practice.

The Coffee Exception: Where Religion Meets Commerce

    An illuminating case study in how Passover customs evolve concerns coffee. Despite its bean-like appearance and common designation as a “bean,” coffee is universally accepted during Passover across all Jewish communities.

    This consensus was formalized in the 1920s when the Maxwell House coffee company sought to expand its market share among Jewish consumers. Advertising executive Joseph Jacobs orchestrated a formal certification from Rabbi Hersch Kohn, a prominent Orthodox rabbi in New York, who ruled that coffee “beans” are botanically the seeds of the coffee cherry (genus Coffea) rather than legumes, thus placing them outside the kitniyot category.

    To solidify this relationship with the Jewish community, Maxwell House introduced its now-famous Haggadah in 1932, distributed free with coffee purchases. This text subsequently became the most widely used Passover liturgical guide in North America—a fascinating example of how commerce, religious authority, and tradition sometimes intertwine.

    What makes this story particularly remarkable is that without Maxwell House’s marketing strategy, many Jews might have continued questioning whether coffee was permissible during Passover.

Conclusion to the Curious Case of Kitnayot

    In the end, it’s clear that food traditions—whether it’s Harry Callahan’s strict rule about hot dogs or the religious prohibitions surrounding Passover—are deeply tied to personal and cultural identities. Just like Harry’s unwavering stance on ketchup, we each have our food “rules” that we follow, sometimes without even questioning them. But understanding the reasons behind these customs—whether it’s religious, linguistic, or historical—can open up new perspectives on the foods we eat, and why we eat them.

    Even so, I will still never put ketchup on a hot dog.

The first one in my family to become observant was my brother Brad. In the mid nineties, he left New York for a trip to Israel to learn at Ohr Somayach in Jerusalem. As I recall, it was a six week, intensive introduction and it was so successful, that he came back to New York, packed up his apartment, put his stuff in storage, and returned  to Israel for two years where he studied and learned and amassed an amazing corpus of knowledge. (I have always been very envious of his having done that. While my own learning has been largely hit and miss, he had a phenomenal structured experience with some of the best speakers and teachers of the time). 

In the spring of 1999 or 2000, my parents rented an apartment in the Har Nof neighborhood of Jerusalem and stayed there for a month over Pesach. I took a week vacation from my residency in Boston and met them there. It was incredibly memorable for me on so many levels. Seeing my brother and how much he had learned impressed me to no end. (As an aside, Brad took me to a shabbos tisch at the Bostoner Rebbe’s shul. After hearing the Rebbe give a long vort in Hebrew and Yiddish (which I did not understand a single word), Brad introduced me to him, at which point the Rebbe introduced himself to me in English with a thick Boston accent. Over that trip, Brad gave me a copy of The Ohr Somayach Haggadah based on the writings of Rabbi Uziel Milevsky. To this day, it is one of my favorite haggadahs. I want to share one of its numerous insights with you.

By the way, Happy Birthday, Brad. I love you.   

When to Tell the Passover Story. 

The Haggadah contains an intriguing passage that appears to question when we should begin telling the story of the Exodus. “You might think that one can relate the Haggadah from Rosh Chodesh Nissan onward,” it suggests, wondering if the obligation might begin at the start of the month, two full weeks before the Seder.

This seemingly odd question actually reveals something profound about how Jewish tradition understands education and memory. The commentary introduces us to the concept of “hechsher mitzvah” – the necessary preparations that make fulfilling a commandment possible. Just as building a sukkah is preparation for dwelling in it, and baking matzah is preparation for eating it, we might think that engaging children with the Exodus story should begin well before Passover night as preparation for the Seder.

However, the Haggadah rejects this approach by emphasizing the phrase “because of this” in the biblical verse “You shall tell your son on that day, saying: ‘It is because of this that God acted on my behalf when I left Egypt.’” The word “this” implies something tangible and present – specifically the matzah and maror (bitter herbs) on the Seder table. Since these ritual objects are only present during the Seder night itself, that is when the story should be told.

Drawing on the Rambam’s wisdom, the text explains that abstract ideas disconnected from concrete actions and objects eventually disappear. The physical elements of Jewish practice – the matzah we eat, the wine we drink, the bitter herbs we taste – anchor our stories and values in sensory experience. Without these tangible connections, even the most powerful narratives fade from memory. 

This is why the Torah insists that the telling of the Exodus story begin “when matzah and maror are placed before you.” The story’s meaning is inseparable from its symbols. When we point to the matzah and say “this is the bread of affliction,” or taste the bitter herbs to experience the bitterness of slavery, we create an indelible memory that can be passed down through generations.

The Haggadah thus teaches us that effective education isn’t just about words and ideas – it’s about creating experiences that engage all the senses. The Seder, with its foods to taste, songs to sing, and rituals to perform, isn’t just telling a story; it’s immersing us in it, ensuring that the lessons of freedom will endure for generations to come.

When you read the story of the Exodus from Egypt, honestly, it sounds like a sci-fi or horror movie. Or at least one where all the tropes have already been played out. Water turning into blood (Carrie, 1976 and 2016). Darkness sweeps across the land (The Fog, 1980 and 2005). Sticks turn into snakes (Jumanji 1995 — the one with Robin Williams). The ocean parts (The Last Airbender, 2010, and Aquaman, 2018). A group of slaves escapes from the most powerful nation (Escape from New York, 1981 — I know it’s not an exact fit, but it was a classic 1980’s movie). These were classic stories and well told. And today, you can get inexpensive software or use AI to create these scenes on your laptop or phone.

Why could this not have been a movie? (It’s actually been several — Prince of Egypt, Ten Commandments, Exodus: Gods and Kings). How do we know this really happened? Well, it’s because my mother (aka Bubbe) told me.

The Living Chain: Intergenerational Memory at the Passover Seder
There exists in Jewish tradition a remarkable phenomenon at the Passover seder that transcends ordinary historical documentation. The intergenerational gathering creates what might be called a “living chain of memory” that connects modern Jews to their ancestral past through direct personal testimony rather than merely through texts or abstract histories. This raises a profound question: How do we know ancient events like the Revelation at Sinai actually happened? The seder tradition offers a unique framework for addressing this historical challenge.

Generations as Units of Time
The traditional dating of the Revelation at Mount Sinai is approximately 1313 BCE, roughly 3,300 years ago. While this seems immensely distant at first glance, when measured in generations rather than years, the perspective shifts dramatically. At an average of 30 years per generation, we’re speaking of only 110 generations since Sinai. And since each seder typically gathers 3-4 generations simultaneously, this translates to approximately 30-35 seder tables connecting us to that foundational moment.

This generational perspective becomes even more tangible when we examine it at the family level. Consider this example: my mother was born in 1947 and likely celebrated Passover with her own grandmother, who might have been born in the 1880s. At the same table in 2025 sits a child born that very year. If this child lives to 120 years (the traditional Jewish blessing), they will carry these memories until 2145. In this single familial chain, we witness nearly 265 years of Jewish experience through just four generations.

More remarkably, it would require only about 12-13 unbroken chains of testimony (where great-grandparent speaks to great-grandchild) to theoretically connect modern Jews to those who stood at Sinai. When history is viewed not as an abstract timeline but as overlapping human lives, ancient events no longer seem so remote but instead become part of an accessible continuum of shared experience.

Beyond Storytelling: Embodied Experience
What distinguishes this transmission is that it occurs not through storytelling alone but through embodied ritual practice. The Passover seder is explicitly designed to collapse historical time and create a sense of direct participation in the Exodus narrative. The Haggadah instructs: “In every generation, each person must see themselves as if they personally left Egypt.” This directive transforms history into present experience.

Children at the seder table don’t simply hear about the Exodus as distant history; they witness their elders experiencing it. They observe their grandparents’ emotional connections to traditions passed down from their own grandparents. This creates a testimony that carries unusual weight—a grandparent can say with authenticity, “This is how my grandmother celebrated, and she learned it from her grandmother before her.”

Torah’s Design for Memory Preservation
This method of transmission aligns precisely with how the Torah itself describes the preservation of memory. In Deuteronomy 4:9, we read: “Only take heed to yourself, and diligently keep yourself, lest you forget the things your eyes have seen, and lest they depart from your heart all the days of your life. And teach them to your children and your grandchildren.”

The text recognizes that memory preservation requires both personal vigilance and active intergenerational teaching. The seder institutionalizes this command, creating a designated time and space where this transmission must occur through questions, answers, stories, songs, foods, and symbolic objects that engage all the senses.

“Bubbe Is Not a Liar”
While academic discourse often focuses on archaeological evidence and textual analysis, there exists a profound form of evidence in the simple statement: “I know it’s true because my grandmother wasn’t a liar.” This isn’t naive sentimentality but rather an acknowledgment of intergenerational trust that forms the backbone of cultural transmission.

When written texts can be questioned, edited, or reinterpreted, the testimony of lived experience carries a different authority. The ritual’s sensory elements—the taste of bitter herbs, the texture of matzah, the melody of familiar songs—create memory anchors that text alone cannot provide. But it is the personal bond of trust between generations that gives these experiences their authenticity.

Contemporary Relevance
In our age of digital documentation and instant global communication, this ancient method of memory transmission might seem obsolete. Yet the persistence of the seder ritual suggests otherwise. Technology can record information but cannot replicate the authority of intergenerational testimony or create the emotional connections forged through shared ritual experience.

The Question of Historical Verification
The question that often arises in both academic and religious contexts is: How do we know the Exodus and Sinai revelation actually occurred? Traditional historical methodologies rely on archaeological evidence, contemporaneous written records from multiple sources, and material artifacts. By these standards, biblical events often present verification challenges.

The Jewish approach to historical verification offers an alternative epistemology. Rather than depending solely on material evidence, it posits that mass experiences transmitted through unbroken chains of generations can constitute a form of historical evidence. This approach suggests that certain events are so transformative that an entire people would not—indeed could not—fabricate them and then maintain that fabrication across vast stretches of time and geography.

The argument proceeds as follows: If the Exodus and Sinai never happened, at what point was this narrative introduced and accepted by an entire people as their foundational history? How would multiple dispersed communities accept the same fabricated history, complete with demanding ritual obligations, without historical record of resistance or competing narratives? The very existence of the Jewish people, maintaining essentially the same core narrative for millennia despite dispersion across continents, becomes a form of evidence.

The seder table becomes a living bridge across time—where ancient practice meets contemporary life, where traditions are both preserved and reinterpreted for new generations, and where the distance between Mount Sinai and our present moment is measured not in millennia but in the spans of interconnected lives.

In a world of historical skepticism, these living chains of memory offer a uniquely Jewish form of evidence for continuity—not a proof in the academic sense, but a testimony in the profoundest human sense. They suggest that when it comes to the transmission of identity and meaning, the most sophisticated technology remains the intergenerational gathering, where grandparents and grandchildren break bread together and share the stories that define them.

After all, as the saying might go, “Bubbe is not a liar. And neither was her Bubbe.”