Tomato Soup

One of the first times I was invited to my future husband’s home for dinner his mother served a small glass of tomato juice as an appetizer. This was my first experience with tomato juice as aperitif.

If this had been my initial dinner invitation I would have attached a symbol to that little glass which looked suspiciously like the Yarzheit (memorial) candles my mother used. Was this a message? I don’t have time to cook for you? You don’t deserve more than this. Who are you to go after my son?

I sat down at the table, took one look and froze.

I hate tomato soup, tomato juice, pizzas with too much tomato sauce, minestrone soup that is too tomatoey. I don’t like ketchup, not even on French fries. That is un-American my husband says. I respond with, “But I like fresh tomatoes.”

Even though I was 21 years old, I had been raised by European parents and taught, no brainwashed, to eat whatever was served when I was a guest at anyone’s home. I had always followed this family rule.

As I sat staring at that sickening, blood red, gelatinous fluid, I felt my gag reflex going into high gear. What was I supposed to say? “No, thank you,” was not acceptable in my parents’ guest behavior protocol. Do I explain why? How do I get out of this?

When I was 5 we lived in one of the kiryats, villages, outside of Haifa, Israel, on the way to Nazareth. My parents, baby sister, and I lived in one room, small kitchen and shared bath/toilet facilities with another family whose rooms on the opposite side were the mirror image of ours.

My parents planted a garden, tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, beets. It was three years after Israeli independence. There were few community resources. No one had much money. In our small town there was one grocery store. We had a chicken once a week for Shabbat.

I came home from school every day at about 1 p.m. My mother promptly served tomato soup which she made from her garden tomatoes. Every day — Sunday to Friday. Sometimes she would put rice in the soup. This concoction was served in a European soup bowl which has a different configuration than an American soup bowl. It was a shissel, in Yiddish, a large bowl. I was never a very good eater and often my mother would sit with me telling me stories as she shoved the soup down my gullet. This only worked for several spoonfuls and accompanying gagging noises. In order to fatten me up she would resort to rye bread with mashed banana, to this day one of my favorites. This opera buffa continued for three more years.

When we came to the United States, my mother would make sandwiches for me to take to school, but only with rye, challah or whole wheat. No Wonder Bread for me. With no garden and fresh tomatoes, there was no more tomato soup. What a relief except for the matzah and salami sandwiches during Passover.

My tomato soup aversion reappeared when I first had pizza in the US. I was probably 16 and out with friends. One bite and that old reflex came back. Tomato sauce on the pizza. Who knew?

Back to my future mother-in-law. I am sitting at that dining room table and I know there is no way I am going to drink that juice. I look over the table to my future husband, Gary.

“Can we talk? Please? Now?”

Gary looks at me in alarm. Luckily his mother had not yet sat down. We stepped into the living room and I said, “I am so sorry. I do not want to offend your mother, but I can’t drink that tomato juice.”

I can see that he is looking at me as if I were momentarily delusional. Tomato juice?

“Ok.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be silly.”

I realized how American he was. What was the big deal?

We walked back to the dining room. I approached his mother and again apologizing profusely said, “I’m so sorry, but I can’t have that tomato juice.”

She looked at me, “Ok.”

She picked it up off the table and took it into the kitchen. She was nonchalant while I was near heart failure. All settled. I relaxed but still felt guilty.

My mother-in-law turned out to be an excellent cook and baker. I still use many of her recipes. After a long day at her dress shop she would come home, feed her family and then unwind by baking in the evening. Gary’s friends would come over just for her cookies.

I never told my parents what had happened. They wouldn’t have understood tomato juice as an appetizer. Worse, they would have been mortified at my rudeness and ingratitude. Plus my mother would not have remembered that I hated tomato juice or tomato sauce or why.

My mother probably would have reminisced about her beautiful garden and those glorious vegetables. I know she would have reminded me how much I loved her tomato soup. Especially when she put rice in it.

Helen Ernst Dosik